Chapter 10
The breach was not subtle. Marcus didn't send assassins to pick the locks; he sent a heavily armed strike team with breaching charges.
A deafening explosion shattered the reinforced steel double doors of the penthouse, blowing them off their hinges. Smoke and pulverized concrete flooded the entryway. Before the dust could even settle, the rapid pop-pop-pop of suppressed automatic fire tore through the room, shredding the expensive furniture and tearing chunks out of the drywall.
"Down!" Julian roared, shoving Clara behind the massive marble kitchen island.
He popped up, returning fire. The deafening roar of his assault rifle filled the room, dropping the first two men who poured through the smoke. Victor flanked from the hallway, picking off targets with ruthless precision.
Clara crouched behind the marble, covering her ears as the gunfire echoed agonizingly in the enclosed space. She watched as a mercenary flanked Julian's position, raising a shotgun.
Before Clara could scream a warning, Samson struck. The mastiff launched himself over the ruined sofa, a hundred-and-sixty-pound blur of muscle and teeth, tearing into the man's throat. The mercenary screamed, dropping the shotgun, but the dog didn't let go.
"Clear the hall!" Victor shouted over the din.
More men poured in. It was a bloodbath. Julian fought like a demon, his movements calculated and brutal. But they were overwhelmingly outnumbered. Marcus had brought an entire platoon to silence his mistake.
A bullet grazed Victor's thigh, sending him crashing to the floor behind a structural pillar. He cursed, clutching his leg, blood instantly pooling on the hardwood.
"Clara!" Julian yelled, pinning down the hallway with suppressive fire. "Victor's hit!"
Clara didn't think. Training overrode terror. She crawled on her hands and knees through the glass and bullet casings, keeping her head down as rounds snapped the air above her. She reached Victor, ripping open her medkit. The wound was a clean through-and-through, missing the femoral artery but tearing through heavy muscle.
"Hold still," Clara grunted, packing the wound with quick-clot gauze and wrapping it tight with a pressure bandage.
"We can't hold them here," Victor grunted, wincing as she tightened the tourniquet. "There's too many. We have to fall back to the sub-level."
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"The elevators are dead," Julian yelled, reloading a fresh magazine.
"The maintenance shaft," Clara said suddenly, her mind racing. "The ventilation grid in the laundry room drops straight down to the clinic level. I saw the blueprints when I was checking the oxygen lines."
