The silver bell struck the edge of the breakfast tray hard enough to make every crystal glass in the room seem to tremble.

BANG!

A blinding flash of white light and a deafening shockwave exploded through the hallway, disorienting the remaining mercenaries.

Claire pulled Adrian through the secret panel behind the study safe, slamming the heavy steel door shut and locking it from the inside just as a barrage of bullets slammed against the exterior metal.

They were standing in a narrow, stone-walled service tunnel running beneath the foundation of the estate. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and river water.

Adrian leaned against the stone wall, breathing heavily, holding his left side. Blood was soaking through his white dress shirt.

"You're hit," Claire said instantly, dropping her rifle to her side and stepping closer.

"Just a graze," Adrian grunted, removing his hand to reveal a crimson stain along his ribs. "I've had worse."

Claire didn't listen. She tore a strip of cloth from her tactical shirt and pressed it firmly against his wound, applying pressure. "Hold that there. We have six hundred yards to the boathouse."

Adrian looked down at her face. In the dim emergency lighting of the tunnel, stripped of her maid's apron and meek demeanor, she looked fierce, beautiful, and utterly terrifying.

"Seven months," Adrian murmured, his voice low and gruff. "You carried my breakfast trays for seven months, listening to Vanessa berate you, and you never broke character once."

"It's my job," Claire said coldly, checking her pistol's ammunition count. "And Vanessa is an amateur."

"She’s currently waiting at the boathouse with her father's boat," Adrian said, his eyes narrowing. "Victor mentioned a getaway launch anchored near the north shore. That's where they plan to escape once the strike team finishes off my men."

"Then that's where we catch them," Claire said.

They moved quickly down the dark damp tunnel, their footsteps echoing softly against the concrete floor. As they reached the metal door leading into the boathouse, Claire held up a hand, signaling for silence.

She pressed her ear to the steel door.

Inside the boathouse, rain was pounding against the wooden roof, and the steady engine roar of a high-powered cigarette boat echoed across the water.

"...where is he?!" Vanessa’s frantic voice wailed from inside. "The strike team was supposed to kill Adrian five minutes ago! Why isn't my father here with the ledger?!"

"Calm down, Miss Carlisle!" a heavy male voice barked. "Your father was hit. We have to launch now before the federal authorities arrive!"

Claire looked at Adrian. She held up three fingers, counting down.

Three.

Two.