Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Blackwood Gates
Before Vincent Thorne could utter another word, the sound of heavy rotor blades tore through the night sky outside. A spotlight swept through the library’s towering leaded glass windows, bathing the room in blinding, oscillating beams of white light.
“The extraction helicopter,” Damian muttered, his eyes narrowing. “They’re landing on the south lawn.”
Suddenly, the library’s rear bay windows exploded inward in a shower of deadly glass shards and splintered wood. Two grappling hooks gripped the stone sills, and smoke canisters hissed as dense white chemical smoke flooded the room, instantly obscuring vision and burning our lungs.
“Cover!” Damian roared.
He lunged toward me, his heavy muscular frame shielding my body as he forced me down behind the massive solid-oak reading desk. Harrington dropped smoothly to one knee behind a marble bust of Marcus Aurelius, the shotgun resting steady across his forearm.
Through the blinding smoke, three tactical operatives rappelled down from the roofline, firing suppressed submachine guns into the room. The deafening rattle of gunfire shredded the antique books, sending thousands of fluttering paper fragments raining through the haze like burning confetti.
“Extract the package! Grab Thorne!” a voice shouted through a tactical respirator.
One of the mercenaries grabbed Vincent by his uninjured arm, hoisting the wounded patriarch toward the broken bay window.
Seraphina scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees, clawing desperately toward the exit. “Take me! Don't leave me here! Take me with you!”
“Grab the satchel!” Vincent screamed, pointing a trembling, bloody finger toward our position behind the oak desk. “She has the original will! Kill the girl and take the satchel!”
A heavily armed operative charged directly toward our barricade, his weapon raised to fire over the desk.
Before Damian could clear the corner to return fire, Thomas Harrington leaned out from behind the marble pedestal. The old butler did not flinch, did not waver, and did not hesitate.
*BOOM!*
The roar of the 12-gauge shotgun thundered through the enclosed library like a cannon blast. The heavy buckshot caught the operative squarely in the tactical vest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the shattered window frame.
Harrington racked the slide with mechanical precision, chambering another round without blinking through the acrid gunpowder smoke. “Not in this house, gentlemen,” Harrington said with icy calm.
Damian swung out from behind the desk, firing three rapid shots that eliminated the second operative covering the extraction line.
Outside, the helicopter’s engine roared to maximum pitch, its spotlight swinging erratically as the pilot prepared for an emergency liftoff.
Vincent was hauled through the broken window frame by the surviving mercenary, tumbling out onto the wet grass of the south lawn. Seraphina lunged after them, grabbing the skid of the aircraft just as it began to lift off into the rain-swept darkness.
“Damian!” she screamed, her voice drowned out by the thunderous roar of the twin turbines. “Damian!”
Damian sprinted to the shattered window, raising his weapon, but the helicopter banked sharply to the south, using the dense tree line to shield its retreat into the low-hanging storm clouds.
Silence descended upon the devastated library, broken only by the hiss of the dying smoke canisters and the steady drumming of rain against the carpet.
Marcus came charging through the library doors, his tactical vest scorched and bloody, followed by three Blackwood security guards. “Boss! We cleared the ground floor! They’re gone! Vincent and the girl got away in the chopper!”
Damian lowered his weapon, his chest heaving slightly. His tuxedo was torn at the shoulder, covered in plaster dust and glass fragments, but his eyes were completely clear, burning with cold, predatory resolve.
“Let them run,” Damian said quietly. “Vincent is bleeding out, and they have no legal documents. They are fugitives now.”
He turned back to where I was kneeling beside the heavy oak desk. He walked over, knelt down on one knee, and extended his hand to help me up.
“Are you hurt, Maya?” he asked softly, inspecting my face for injuries.
“I’m fine,” I said, though my legs shook as I stood up on the glass-strewn floor. I held up the leather satchel. “They didn't get it. Arthur’s will is safe.”
Harrington stepped forward, resting his shotgun against a shelf and brushing plaster dust from his pristine white gloves. “A Blackwood never surrenders the seat, my dear. Your mother would be immensely proud of you tonight.”
Damian turned to Marcus. “Call our private medical team to treat our wounded guards. Have the local police commissioner contacted—tell him the Thorne family attempted an armed robbery at my residence. Freeze all accounts associated with Thorne Financial Services within the next sixty minutes.”
“Right away, Mr. Blackwood,” Marcus nodded, heading back out to coordinate the security detail.
Damian walked over to the shattered window, looking out into the stormy night where the helicopter had vanished. “Vincent knows this is the end of his dynasty. He will try to liquidate what assets he has left and flee to their compound in the Cayman Islands.”
“Then we stop him before he reaches international waters,” I said, stepping up beside Damian. The fear that had gripped me when the gala began was completely gone, replaced by a deep, ancestral fire that I had never known existed within me.
Damian looked down at me, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips. “You sound like a syndicate leader, Maya.”
“I’m Arthur Blackwood’s granddaughter,” I replied, looking straight into his eyes. “And nobody threatens my family and walks away untouched.”
May you like
Damian placed a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of absolute partnership and respect. “Tomorrow morning, we call an emergency meeting of the High Syndicate Council. You will take your seat at the head of the table. And we will dismantle the Thorne family piece by piece.”
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