Chapter 67 - The Black Velvet Gala
Upstairs in the grand hall, the tension had snapped like a frozen cable.
Arthur Vance stood tall, his ebony cane tapping against the marble floor as his mercenaries circled Clara. "Hand the child to my guards, Clara, or they will peel him from your dead fingers."
Clara took a slow step backward, her eyes scanning the room. She saw no fear in her own reflection on the polished marble; she saw only the legacy of survival.
"You really want to see the key to your empire, Arthur?" Clara asked, her voice dropping into an eerily calm whisper.
With a swift, fluid motion, Clara pulled back the heavy wool blanket covering the bundle.
There was no baby inside.
Resting inside the swaddling cloth was a military-grade EMP generator, its digital display blinking green with a zero countdown.
"What is that—" Arthur began, his eyes widening in sudden, terrifying realization.
Clara struck the central activation switch on the device.
A blinding pulse of electromagnetic radiation exploded through the grand reception hall with a muted *whump*. Instantly, every light in the Citadel flickered and died. The automated security cameras sparked into smoke. The night-vision optics on the mercenaries' helmets short-circuited with a painful screech, blinding them. The automated magnetic door locks released across the entire compound as the power grid collapsed into total darkness.
In the ensuing pitch-black chaos, Clara dropped to the floor, rolling behind a massive marble pillar just as the disoriented guards fired blind volleys into the shadows.
"Kill her!" Arthur screamed, his calm facade instantly shattering into senile rage. "Secure the entrances! Find the child!"
Suddenly, the heavy double doors leading to the subterranean service stairwell blew inward with a violent crash.
A figure emerged from the darkness like a vengeful shadow. Ethan Vance moved with terrifying speed, firing with surgical precision. Muzzle flashes illuminated the grand hall in strobe-light bursts. Three mercenaries collapsed before they could even adjust their iron sights.
"Ethan!" Clara called out from behind the pillar.
"Down!" Ethan ordered, advancing through the hall like a relentless machine of war.
A surviving mercenary lunged toward Clara with a combat knife, but Ethan closed the distance in two strides, catching the man's wrist, snapping it with a sharp twist, and hurling him over the balustrade into the darkness below.
Ethan pulled Clara to her feet, his dark tactical uniform soaked in glacial water, his eyes blazing with fury. "Are you hurt?"
"No," Clara breathed, clutching his arm, her pulse racing. "Arthur—he was never in that chair!"
Ethan spun around.
In the dim light cast by the roaring fireplace, the armchair was empty. A concealed doorway behind the grand tapestry hung open, revealing a private elevator shaft powered by an independent, shielded backup generator.
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"He’s heading to the rooftop helipad," Ethan said, grabbing a discarded rifle from the floor. "He has an escape transport."
"He doesn't escape," Clara said, her voice hard as diamond. "Not this time."
