Chapter 230: The Storm Wall 2

Emily

The safe room smells of polished steel and recycled oxygen. I stand in the center of the secure bunker, my hands resting protectively over the heavy swell of my stomach. Alistair left me here five minutes ago, promising to coordinate the defense from the central security hub.

A massive bank of monitors covers the far wall, displaying the external camera feeds from around the estate. Most of the screens show only the violent, driving rain.

I stare at the monitors, my heart pounding a relentless rhythm against my ribs. The thunderstorm outside mimics the exact night my mother was murdered thirteen years ago. The crashing thunder, the relentless downpour, the terrifying presence of armed men invading my home.

I refuse to be a helpless victim again.

I walk over to the heavy metal table in the corner of the room. The Nightblade pistol rests on the steel surface. I pick it up. The custom-modified weapon possesses a heavy, comforting weight. I check the magazine. It is fully loaded with armor-piercing rounds. I slide a round into the chamber with a sharp, satisfying mechanical clack.

I turn my attention back to the security monitors. I scan the feeds rapidly.

Camera sector seven catches my eye. The guest wing courtyard.

I step closer to the screen. Two mercenaries in dark tactical gear stand in the pouring rain. They have someone pinned to the ground. A woman in a white silk robe.

Beatrice Wolfe.

She is on her knees in the mud. One of the mercenaries holds an assault rifle directly against her head. Beatrice is weeping, her face completely obscured by the torrential rain and her soaked hair.

She is the woman who orchestrated the kidnapping of little Lily. She is the woman who locked a child in a dog cage just to spite me. She sneered at my background, insulted my character, and tried to have me expelled from this family.

A dark, bitter part of my mind tells me to look away. It tells me to let the mercenaries dispose of her. It would be a poetic, ruthless end to my greatest domestic rival.

But I watch the mercenary press the barrel harder against her skull. I see the sheer, absolute terror shaking Beatrice’s entire body.

I am not a murderer. I am a healer. I developed SN1818 to save lives, not watch them end. If I allow a woman to be executed on my lawn while I hold a loaded weapon, I am no better than the monster who shot my mother.

I grip the Nightblade tightly. I turn away from the monitors and press my hand against the biometric scanner next to the safe room door. The heavy steel bolts slide back.

I step out into the red-lit hallway. I move quickly, ignoring the heavy ache in my lower back. I navigate the corridors until I reach the second-floor balcony overlooking the guest wing courtyard. The French doors are locked, but the glass is shatterproof. I unlatch the manual override and push the doors open.

The storm hits me with the force of a physical blow. The freezing wind whips my hair across my face. The rain soaks my gray cashmere sweater in seconds.

I step out onto the marble balcony. I look down into the courtyard.

The mercenaries are twenty yards below me. They are shouting at each other over the roar of the thunder, distracted by their captive.

I step up to the marble balustrade. I widen my stance, planting my feet firmly on the slippery stone. I raise the Nightblade pistol with both hands. I ignore the freezing rain stinging my eyes. I focus entirely on the front sight post.

I align the sights directly on the center mass of the mercenary holding the gun to Beatrice’s head.

I squeeze the trigger.

The Nightblade kicks violently in my hands. The suppressed shot is quiet, but the impact is devastating. The armor-piercing round strikes the mercenary in the collarbone. He drops his rifle, screaming in agony, and falls backward into the mud.

The second mercenary spins around, raising his weapon toward the balcony.

I do not hesitate. I fire twice more. The heavy recoil travels up my arms. The first round shatters the mercenary’s tactical flashlight. The second round punches through his thigh. He collapses, dropping to one knee, firing a wild, erratic burst of bullets into the air.

“Beatrice!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Run!”

Beatrice stares up at the balcony. Her eyes are wide with absolute, paralyzed shock. She sees me standing in the pouring rain, holding the smoking pistol.

“Move!” I shout again, firing a warning shot into the mud inches from the wounded mercenary’s hand.

The crack of the bullet finally breaks her paralysis. Beatrice scrambles to her feet. She slips in the mud, crying out, but forces herself upright. She sprints wildly toward the service entrance, diving under the jammed steel shutter and disappearing into the safety of the house.

I lower the pistol. My chest heaves with exertion. I step back from the edge of the balcony, retreating into the dry hallway. I lock the French doors securely behind me. My hands are shaking violently now, the adrenaline slowly leaving my system.

I saved her. The woman who wanted me destroyed owes me her life.

Beatrice

The catering kitchen is completely dark. I lie on my back on the cold tile floor. I am covered in thick, freezing mud. My silk nightgown is ruined, clinging to my shivering skin. My bare feet are bleeding from the sharp gravel.

I cannot stop hyperventilating. Each breath tears at my throat.

I close my eyes, but the image remains burned into my retinas. The bright muzzle flash. The mercenary collapsing beside me.

Emily Vance stood on that balcony.

She stepped out into a raging thunderstorm, pregnant and completely vulnerable, to shoot the men who were going to execute me. She held the gun with absolute precision. She did not hesitate.

I treated her like garbage. I called her a gutter rat. I orchestrated a kidnapping that could have resulted in the death of my own niece, all to frame her. I plotted her ruin every single day I sat in that miserable meditation room.

And when I was on my knees in the mud, seconds away from a bullet to the brain, she risked her own life to save mine.

A ragged, ugly sob tears out of my chest. I curl into a tight ball on the wet tile. I wrap my arms around my knees, weeping uncontrollably.

The sheer magnitude of my own malice crashes down on me. I spent my entire life building a fortress of arrogance and cruelty. I believed my bloodline made me superior. I believed wealth equated to invincibility.

The mercenaries did not care about my bank accounts. They did not care about my last name. They only saw a target.

Emily Vance saw a human being.

I press my face against the cold floor. The shame is absolute and crushing. It burns hotter than the freezing rain. I am a monster, and a saint just handed me a second chance.

I hear the heavy thud of tactical boots entering the kitchen. Bright flashlight beams sweep across the room, illuminating the stainless steel counters.

“We have a survivor!” a deep voice calls out.

Two Wolfe security operatives rush to my side. They kneel down, checking my pulse and examining the bleeding cuts on my feet.

“First Madam,” one of the guards says, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Are you injured? Are you shot?”

“No,” I whisper. My voice is completely hoarse. I look up at the guard, tears streaming through the mud on my face. “I am not shot.”

“We need to move you to the secure medical bay,” the guard instructs. He reaches under my arms, lifting me carefully off the tile.

I lean heavily against his tactical vest. I do not care about the dirt or the blood. I look toward the heavy service door leading to the main house.

My vendetta is completely dead. The bitter hatred I harbored for Emily Vance evaporates into nothing, washed away by the storm and the terrifying reality of my own mortality. She is not an imposter trying to steal our family legacy. She is the only reason I am still breathing.

“Take me to her,” I say quietly, my voice breaking.

“Ma’am?” the guard asks, looking confused.

“Take me to Emily,” I repeat. I close my eyes, allowing the guards to support my weight. “I need to thank her.”