Chapter 26 - Shadows Over Clara
Panic hit me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat, the walls of the luxury elevator suddenly closing in around me.
“Mason!” I gasped, thrusting the napkin into his hands.
His eyes scanned the words, and in an instant, the poised corporate attorney vanished, replaced by an apex predator whose instincts were honed to lethal precision.
He slapped the emergency phone inside the elevator. “Ronald! Lock down the Vance Manor! Code Black! Code Black!”
Static crackled over the speaker. *“Mr. Mason! There’s a delivery van that breached the outer security gate—three men in tactical gear—we’ve moved Miss Clara to the panic room—!”*
The sound of gunfire tore through the receiver, followed by a sickening crunch of shattered glass. Then, dead silence.
“Clara!” I screamed, tearing off my high heels right there on the marble floor.
“Eleanor, stay behind me!” Mason ordered as the elevator reached the underground private parking level.
Our armored black SUV was waiting, the driver already revving the engine. We threw ourselves into the backseat as the SUV screeched out of the garage, tires smoking against the asphalt, racing into the dark Boston night with sirens blaring.
The fifteen-minute drive to the suburban estate felt like an eternity through hell. All I could see was Clara’s innocent, smiling face. All I could remember was the vow I had made over her cradle—that I would burn the world before I let anyone harm her.
When our SUV roared through the shattered iron gates of Vance Manor, the scene was carnage. Two security cars were overturned on the lawn. Floodlights swept across the Georgian brick facade, illuminating smoke drifting from the shattered French doors of the library.
Before the SUV had even come to a full stop, I threw the door open.
“Eleanor, wait for backup!” Mason roared, leaping out after me, his Glock drawn.
I didn't care about backup. I didn't care about bullets. I sprinted through the shattered glass of the library, the hem of my emerald gown torn and splattered with mud.
Inside the central hallway, two foreign mercenaries lay unconscious on the marble floor, neutralized by our perimeter guards. But the door to the reinforced panic room had been scorched by thermite charges.
“Clara!” I screamed, throwing my weight against the scorched steel door.
The door groaned open.
Inside, trembling in the corner, sat Maria, holding Clara tightly against her chest. Clara was crying, her cheeks red, but she was untouched, wrapped securely in her blanket. Standing over them, holding a smoking tactical shotgun with blood dripping from his temple, was Ronald.
“They... they tried to take her, Ms. Eleanor,” Ronald panted, his chest heaving. “They weren't here to kill. They had a specialized medical transport pod. They wanted the baby alive.”
I fell to my knees, taking Clara from Maria’s shaking arms, pulling my daughter into my chest so hard I could feel her rapid little heartbeat against mine. I wept openly, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her tiny fingers.
“I have you,” I sobbed. “Mommy’s here. You’re safe.”
Mason entered the vault, his eyes sweeping the scene. When he saw Clara was uninjured, the crushing tension in his shoulders finally broke, but the fury in his eyes burned hotter than molten iron.
He knelt down beside me, wrapping his long, strong arms around both me and Clara, anchoring us in the dark.
“Laurent went too far,” Mason whispered against my hair. “He didn't just cross a legal line. He signed his own death warrant.”
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“We aren't waiting for the morning,” I said, looking up at Mason through my tears, my voice turning to pure ice. “Fuel the jet. Clara flies with us. We are taking the fight to Switzerland tonight.”
***
