Chapter 5 - The Crossfire Trap
The digital trap sprang shut with the cold precision of a guillotine.
On the massive tactical monitors mounted against the stone wall of the panic room, I watched the thermal signatures of six tactical operatives moving through the shattered front parlor like ghosts in the smoke. Their movements were fluid, disciplined, terrifyingly competent.
“They’re using flash-bangs to clear the ground floor,” I muttered, my fingers dancing across the console to isolate the HVAC ventilation grid. “If they breach the sub-level stairwell, they’ll hit the primary server room within ninety seconds.”
Dante stood behind me, one hand resting on the back of my chair, his eyes fixed on the screens while his other hand held his Glock at the ready. He wasn't looking at me like I was a burden anymore. The way his gaze tracked my movements—calculating, trusting, entirely focused—sent a strange, unfamiliar warmth rushing through my veins.
“They won't reach the sub-level,” Dante said quietly into his comm-link headset. “Marcus, Leo, you copy? They’re entering sector four. Let them clear the hallway.”
“Copy, boss,” a gravelly voice crackled back through the earpiece. “Waiting for your mark.”
“Now,” Dante commanded.
Crack. Crack-crack.
The muffled sound of suppressed gunfire reverberated through the thick concrete walls of the panic room. On the thermal monitors, two red heat signatures instantly dropped to the floor, motionless. The remaining four operatives immediately scattered, seeking cover behind marble pillars and antique sideboards, returning fire with blind, professional fury that chewed up Moretti’s imported woodwork.
“They’re adapting,” I said, tapping a sequence on my keyboard. “They’ve cut the local power grid to the west wing. Auxiliary generators will kick in in thirty seconds, but right now, night-vision goggles give them the absolute advantage.”
“Not all of them,” Dante murmured. He stepped back from the console, racking the slide of his pistol one last time. “Stay here, Sophia. Lock the inner vault door from this side. If I’m not back in ten minutes, use the satellite uplink to send the encrypted files to the federal prosecutor in New York.”
My hand shot out, catching his forearm. The skin was hot, tense, vibrating with adrenaline.
“Don't be an idiot, Dante,” I snapped. “There are four trained mercenaries out there with thermal sights and submachine guns. You’re good, but you aren't bulletproof.”
Dante looked down at my hand on his arm, then slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. A faint, humorless smile played across his lips.
“Nobody ever called me bulletproof, Sophia,” he said softly. “But nobody touches what’s mine inside my own house, either.”
May you like
Before I could process the possessive weight of that sentence—what’s mine—he spun on his heel, slipped out of the panic room, and pulled the heavy steel vault door shut behind him.
The pneumatic seal hissed shut, cutting off the sound of the gunfire, leaving me alone in the dark with glowing green monitors and a heart that felt like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest.
