Chapter 18 - The Ambush in Mayfair
The streets of central London were blurred by rain and flashing headlights as our armored convoy tore through the Mayfair district. The growl of the V8 engines inside our bespoke Range Rovers vibrated through my bones.
"Three minutes out," Julian yelled over the roar of the siren, monitoring a live satellite feed on his dash. "The house is surrounded. Arthur’s private security is holding the fortified panic room, but Vance’s mercenaries have breached the courtyard with thermite charges."
"Can we reach them in time?" I gripped the grab handle, my knuckles white.
"We have to," Maxwell replied coldly.
As our lead vehicle swung hard around the corner onto Chesterfield Gardens, chaos erupted.
*BANG!*
A blinding flash illuminated the rain-slicked pavement. A rocket-propelled grenade struck the lead escort vehicle, flipping it violently into the air before it crashed onto its roof in a fireball of twisted metal.
"Ambush!" Julian roared, spinning the steering wheel hard left.
Our Range Rover skidded across the wet asphalt, slamming into an armored Mercedes that had pulled out to block the intersection. The impact threw me violently against the seatbelt, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Through the rain-streaked, bulletproof glass, I saw six masked gunmen in black tactical gear advancing, assault rifles raised.
"Stay down, Claire!" Maxwell shouted, kicking his door open into the storm.
Gunfire shattered the London afternoon like thunder. Maxwell fired with lethal, terrifying precision, dropping two mercenaries instantly behind a shattered stone balustrade. Julian drew his weapon, returning fire through the driver’s side firing port while desperately trying to restart our stalled engine.
"Claire, take this!" Julian shoved a compact Glock into my hands. "Do not hesitate. Anyone who opens that door dies."
A heavy thud shook the roof of our car. A mercenary had jumped onto the hood, his rifle barrel aimed directly through the spiderwebbed windshield at my face.
Before he could pull the trigger, the sound of a high-powered sniper rifle echoed from a nearby rooftop. The mercenary’s chest erupted, and his lifeless body slid off the hood into the street.
"Friendly sniper!" Julian shouted in disbelief, checking his comms. "Whose team is on the roof?"
Over the radio, a calm, deep voice crackled through the static—a voice I hadn't heard in six long years:
May you like
*"Claire... keep your head down. Your father is taking out the trash."*
***
