Chapter 3 - THE SIEGE OF ASHFORD HOUSE
Ashford House was built like a fortress, but any fortress was only as strong as its perimeter gates.
With Julian lying bound and gagged in the security office, I activated the mansion's secondary lockdown protocol from my encrypted master tablet. Steel blast shutters slid down over every ground-floor window with a heavy, metallic thud, sealing the interior off from the outside world.
"Harper, take Ava and Emma into the panic room behind the library," I ordered, guiding my daughters down the reinforced hallway. "Do not open that door for anyone except me or Claire. Do you understand?"
"Dad," Harper whispered, tears gleaming in her young eyes as she leaned on her crutches, supporting her injured sister. "Is... is the maid really going to fight them?"
I looked back at Claire, who was currently checking the perimeter camera feeds on a laptop screen, her face illuminated by the cool blue light of tactical maps.
"She's not just a maid, baby," I said softly, pressing a kiss onto Harper's forehead and then onto Emma's cheek. "She's our guardian angel."
Emma reached out, tugging my sleeve. "Daddy, don't let the bad men hurt Claire. She fixed Ava's leg. She fixes everything."
"I won't let anyone hurt her, sweetheart," I promised, closing the heavy titanium panic room door and locking it with a six-digit biometric code.
I turned back to the corridor where Claire was waiting. She had swapped her maid's apron for a dark tactical vest she had pulled from my gun room, her dark hair pulled tightly back into a professional bun.
"We have four vehicles pulling up to the outer gate," Claire reported, tapping the laptop screen. "Heavy SUVs. No license plates. At least twelve armed operators equipped with automatic rifles and night-vision gear. They know the main security team is dead or compromised."
"The Detroit Syndicate," I growled, checking my tactical vest pouches. "Victor Ross. He's been trying to take my riverfront shipping docks for five years. He knew if he killed me in Miami and wiped out my daughters in Chicago, my organization would fall apart by morning."
"They're going to breach the front gates with a ram," Claire said, analyzing the camera feeds. "The blast shutters on the ground floor will hold against small arms fire, but if they have heavy explosives, they'll breach the reinforced oak doors in under five minutes."
"Then we don't let them reach the doors," I said, a dark smile touching my lips. "This house has a tactical kill-zone designed into the courtyard. The stone walls bottle any incoming force into a narrow bottleneck."
Claire looked at me, a sharp, approving spark in her eyes. "An iron funnel. Classic defensive architecture. Where do you want me?"
"The second-floor balcony," I said, pointing toward the sweeping marble staircase. "You take the high ground with a sniper rifle. I'll hold the main entryway. Anyone who crosses the threshold meets my crossfire."
Claire didn't hesitate. She picked up a suppressed Remington .308 rifle from my weapons locker, checked the thermal scope, and slung a spare ammunition bandolier over her shoulder.
"Marcus," she said softly, stopping at the foot of the stairs.
I paused, looking back at her.
"Don't get yourself killed," she said quietly. "Your daughters need a father. And I'm not going through all the trouble of stitching them up just to watch them become orphans."
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"I'm not dying tonight, Claire," I replied, pulling my primary assault rifle into my shoulder. "Not when I finally have a reason to fight for this home again."
Three seconds later, a deafening explosion rocked the front gates of Ashford House.
