Chapter 8 - The Siege of Beacon Hill
The glass windows of the study shattered inward in a shower of glittering shards as a high-powered sniper round embedded itself deep into the mahogany bookshelf behind them.
"Get down!" Gabriel roared.
He lunged forward, tackling Harper to the floor just as a second round whistled through the open balcony door, tearing through the upholstery of the velvet armchair she had been standing next to a second earlier.
The mansion’s security system instantly blared to life—deep, red emergency strobe lights flashing across the white marble walls, accompanied by automated lockdown shutters slamming down over the ground-floor windows.
"Marcus!" Gabriel shouted into his comms link as he shielded Harper beneath his body, pulling a heavy Sig Sauer P226 pistol from his shoulder holster with lightning speed.
We're breached, Boss! Marcus's voice barked over the gunfire and shouting downstairs. Four men in tactical gear—Vance’s hit squad. They bypassed the East Gate!
"Secure the panic room on the fourth floor," Gabriel ordered, his voice cold, calm, and absolute. "Get the staff upstairs. Move!"
He looked down at Harper. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp, entirely clear of panic.
"I'm not going to a panic room," Harper said firmly, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "I've spent three years hiding in closets, Gabriel. I'm done running."
Gabriel stared at her for a fraction of a second, a fierce, dark grin breaking across his face. He grabbed her hand, yanking her up.
"Then stay close to me," he commanded.
What followed was twenty minutes of pure, controlled chaos. Viktor Vance’s mercenaries had expected an unprepared household; instead, they walked into a fortified compound led by a man who anticipated every betrayal before it happened. Gunfire echoed through the grand hallways, wood splinters flying, glass shattering, security alarms shrieking.
Harper stayed right behind Gabriel as he cleared the second-floor landing, his movements precise and lethal. When one of the mercenaries rounded the corner of the hallway with a submachine gun raised, Harper didn't scream. She grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp, hurled it directly into the man’s path, distracting him for a split second—long enough for Gabriel to neutralize the threat with two clean shots to center mass.
By the time the smoke cleared and absolute silence returned to the Ashford residence, three of the mercenaries were cuffed on the marble foyer floor, and the fourth had retreated into the rainy night.
Marcus jogged up the grand staircase, his breathing heavy, holding a smoking rifle. "Perimeter is secure. The rest of Vance’s crew fled in a van toward the Seaport."
Gabriel lowered his pistol, sliding it back into its holster. He turned to Harper, his eyes scanning her frantically for any sign of injury. "Are you hit?"
"I'm fine," she panted, brushing soot off her sweater. Her heart was racing a marathon, but she stood tall, completely unbowed. "Are you?"
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Gabriel let out a ragged breath, reached out, and pulled her hard against his chest, burying his face in her hair. For the first time all night, the unyielding crime boss allowed his armor to crack, holding onto her as if she were the only real thing in a world built on violence.
"I told you," Gabriel murmured against her ear, his voice rough with emotion, "nobody touches you in my house."
