Chapter 30
Connor
We descended from the hayloft, moving with practiced stealth toward the exit. Outside, the estate had become a war zone. Smoke hung thick in the air, punctuated by muzzle flashes and the staccato rhythm of gunfire. The west wing of the house was partially engulfed in flames, casting an eerie, flickering light across the grounds.
“Stay low, stick to cover,”
I murmured, leading the way across the darkened grounds. There was no denying that Mia had more training than me, but there was no way I was letting her go headfirst into danger.
A group of Matheson’s operatives had established a position near the fountain, laying down suppressive fire toward the main entrance where Declan’s men were returning fire. I signaled to Mia, indicating a path that would allow us to flank them.
She nodded, understanding immediately. We split up, approaching from different angles. I counted three figures at the fountain—all focused on the main house, no one aware of our approach. I caught Mia’s eye across the distance, held up three fingers, then counted down.
Three. Two. One.
We moved simultaneously, emerging from cover with deadly precision. I took the operative on the right, putting two rounds through his chest before he could react. Mia eliminated the other two with equal efficiency—clean headshots that dropped them instantly.
“Clear,”
she whispered, already moving toward the next point of cover.
The radio crackled to life. “Connor? Mia? Where are you?”
Rory’s voice was strained, the sound of gunfire in the background.
“Approaching the main house from the south,”
I replied quietly. “What’s your situation?”
“Not good,”
he admitted. “They’ve pushed us back to the central hallway. Declan’s holding the study, but he’s pinned down. Matheson’s team is trying to breach the panic room where Wren is.”
“And Matheson himself?”
Mia asked, her voice tight with controlled fury.
“Haven’t seen him,”
Rory replied. “But he’s here somewhere. I can feel it.”
We reached the south terrace, finding the French doors shattered. Glass crunched beneath our boots as we entered, weapons raised. The once-elegant living room was in ruins—furniture overturned for cover, bullet holes peppering the walls, blood staining the expensive carpet.
“This way,”
I whispered, leading us toward the central hallway where Rory had said they were making their stand.
As we approached, the sound of gunfire intensified. I peered around the corner to see Rory and two clan members exchanging fire with a larger force at the opposite end of the hallway. Between bursts of gunfire, I could make out shouted orders—Matheson’s team coordinating their advance.
“Rory,”
I called, just loud enough to be heard over the chaos. “Coming in on your six.”
He glanced back, relief washing over his face as he spotted us. “About damn time!”
We slid into position beside him, adding our firepower to the defense. “Where’s Kat?”
I asked, noticing her absence.
“With Declan in the study,”
Rory replied, ducking as a bullet whizzed overhead. “And Wren’s in the panic room, directing what people we have left through the security system.”
Mia assessed the situation with a tactical eye. “They’re trying to wear us down, force us to expend ammunition. Classic siege tactics.”
“Well, it’s working,”
Rory grimaced. “We’re running low on ammo, and they keep bringing in reinforcements.”
“We need to change the dynamics,”
Mia said, her mind clearly racing. “If we stay defensive, we’ll eventually be overrun.”
I nodded in agreement. “We need to take the fight to them. Hit them where they’re not expecting it.”
“Matheson,”
Mia said, her eyes meeting mine with fierce determination. “If we take him out, his operation falls apart. That’s how the agency is structured—top-down control, limited initiative from field operatives. Cut off the head, and the body dies.”
“Do you know where he’d be?”
I asked, checking my ammunition.
“If I were him, I’d be coordinating from a secure location with good visibility and multiple escape routes.”
She thought for a moment. “The library. Second floor, corner room. It has sight lines to most of the estate grounds and access to the main staircase.”
“Can you get us there?”
Rory asked, reloading his weapon.
Mia nodded. “Through the service corridor and up the back stairs. It bypasses the main conflict areas.”
“Go,”
Rory said firmly. “I’ll hold this position, keep their attention focused here.”
I gripped his shoulder briefly. “Be careful.”
“You too,”
he replied with a grim smile. “And Mia? Make that bastard pay.”
She gave him a sharp nod, her expression hardening into something cold and deadly. This was the assassin side of her—the trained killer that had been buried beneath the woman I’d fallen for. Now, I was grateful for both.
We slipped away, moving through the kitchen toward the service corridor. The sounds of battle faded slightly as we entered the narrow passageway, though the occasional explosion or burst of gunfire reminded us that the fight continued unabated.
“Connor,”
Mia whispered as we approached the service stairs, “if Matheson is there, he won’t be alone. He’ll have his personal security detail—elite operatives, the best the agency has.”
“How many?”
“At least four,”
she replied. “Possibly six if he’s feeling particularly cautious.”
I checked my weapon again, a habit born of anxiety and training. “That’s not great odds.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I’ve faced worse.”
We ascended the stairs silently, each footfall carefully placed to avoid creaking boards. At the top, Mia paused, listening intently before signaling me forward. The second-floor hallway was eerily quiet compared to the chaos below—a pocket of calm in the storm.
Mia led the way, moving with the fluid grace of a predator as we approached the library. Outside the ornate double doors, she stopped, pressing her ear against the wood. After a moment, she held up five fingers—five people inside.
I nodded, understanding the challenge ahead. We were outnumbered, potentially outgunned. But we had surprise on our side, and something Matheson could never account for—the desperate determination of people fighting for family.
Mia caught my eye, mouthing silently: “On three.”
I nodded, positioning myself on the opposite side of the doorway. She counted down with her fingers—three, two, one—and we burst through the doors, weapons at the ready.
The library was dimly lit by a single desk lamp, creating pools of shadow among the towering bookshelves. Five figures turned at our entrance—four black-clad operatives who immediately reached for their weapons, and one older man seated calmly behind the antique desk.
Matheson.