Chapter 25 - Blood and Smoke
Marcus's tackle knocked both Valerie and me behind the thick stone pedestal of the Reformation Wall just as a second round of automatic fire ripped through the autumn mist.
Stone fragments exploded around us. The world narrowed to the deafening roar of gunshots, the sharp smell of cordite, and the adrenaline surging through my veins.
"They tracked your car from the airfield!" Valerie hissed, pulling a compact semi-automatic pistol from inside her coat with terrifying familiarity. "Arthur knows I made contact!"
"Not Arthur," Marcus said, peeking around the corner and firing two calculated shots that shattered the front windshield of the advancing SUV. "Those aren't corporate fixers. Those are private European mercenaries. Julian’s foreign creditors!"
"Julian’s creditors?" I gasped, shielding my head as another spray of bullets pitted the granite wall.
"When Julian went bankrupt, he owed twelve million euros to an offshore syndicate in Marseille," Marcus explained, reloading smoothly. "He told them the money was locked in a Bennett trust in Zurich that only Clara Bennett could access with the original key!"
"They aren't here to kill us," Valerie realized, her hazel eyes flashing with feral intensity. "They're here to take Clara hostage and force her to open the vault!"
The SUV skidded sideways, blocking the path. Three masked men armed with tactical rifles spilled out into the courtyard.
"Clara, on my mark, run for the southern gate!" Marcus ordered, his voice steady despite the hail of bullets. "Valerie, cover the left flank!"
"I don't take orders from your bodyguard," Valerie snapped, but she leaned out and fired three rapid shots that forced the nearest gunman to dive behind a concrete bench.
"He's not my bodyguard," I said, grabbing Valerie's arm. "He's the man who saved my life when everyone else betrayed me. Now move!"
We broke from the cover of the monument. My lungs burned as our boots tore across the wet grass toward the historic university gates. Behind us, Marcus provided suppressive fire, his training apparent in every calculated movement. A bullet grazed my shoulder, slicing through the heavy fabric of my wool coat, but I didn't stop. Pain was nothing compared to the fury fueling my legs.
We burst through the wrought-iron gate just as a second vehicle—our unmarked Mercedes—screeched to a halt at the curb. The driver kicked the passenger door open.
"Get in!" Marcus yelled, sliding across the wet pavement and shoving Valerie and me into the back seat before diving in behind us.
The driver slammed on the gas, the tires smoking against the asphalt as we rocketed into the heavy Geneva traffic, leaving the sirens of the Swiss police wailing in the distance.
Valerie leaned back against the leather seat, panting, blood dripping from a small cut on her forehead. She looked at me, then down at my grazed shoulder, and then at Marcus.
For the first time, the icy armor around her face melted into something resembling awe.
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"You really aren't the helpless socialite Arthur described," Valerie said softly.
"The helpless socialite burned Julian's empire to the ground," I replied, wiping the sweat from my eyes. "Now tell me about the vault in Zurich. What did our mother leave us?"
