CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sasha
THE ESTATE IS eerily quiet when we return. Tony escorts me from the command vehicle to the house. His eyes scan continuously.
"I thought it would feel different. After a successful mission."
"It's not over yet," he reminds me. "Not until everyone's back safely, including the boss."
"How long before Marco returns?" I ask, following Tony through the dimly lit corridor toward the main part of the house.
"Hard to say. Debriefing Gerald could take hours, depending on his condition, his willingness to cooperate." He checks his watch. "I'd estimate three hours minimum before they head back to the estate."
Three hours of waiting, of uncertainty. The thought settles heavily, but I push away the instinctive anxiety. Marco can handle himself. He's survived far worse than an interrogation with a dying traitor.
"You should try to rest," Tony suggests as we reach the main hall. "It's been a long day, and tomorrow will likely be just as demanding."
He's right, of course. The adrenaline that carried me through the operation is fading, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. But the thought of sleeping while Marco is still out there, still potentially in danger, seems impossible.
"I think I'll just make some tea," I say instead. "Try to decompress a bit."
Tony nods, understanding. "I'll be in the security office monitoring communications if you need anything. Two men will remain stationed in the hall."
The precautions should be reassuring, but they only underscore the persistent danger, the reality that even here, in what I've come to think of as our sanctuary, complete safety is an illusion.
After Tony leaves, I make my way to the kitchen, finding comfort in the familiar routine of filling the kettle, selecting tea, and warming the pot. Small domestic actions that ground me amid the chaos of the past twenty-four hours.
As I wait for the water to boil, I check my phone—a new one Marco provided after my original was destroyed during the attack on the estate. No messages from Lily or Karen yet, which is expected given they're likely still in transit to Kerry. Marco arranged for them to call once they safely arrived at the property, not before.
The kitchen feels cavernous around me, designed for a full staff rather than a solitary woman making tea at midnight. In the silence, my mind replays scenes from the operation—the tense wait in the command vehicle, the frantic evacuation when Gerald warned of explosives, the massive fireball that confirmed his claim. How close Marco came to losing Damien and his entire team. How easily it could have been Marco himself walking into that trap.
The kettle whistles, jolting me from increasingly dark thoughts. I prepare the tea methodically, focusing on each step as a form of meditation. As I carry my cup to the small table tucked into the kitchen's corner, a noise from the hallway catches my attention—footsteps.
My pulse quickens, but I remember Tony saying there was security in the hallway. I set down the teacup,move silently toward the door, listening intently. The footsteps have stopped.
"Hello?" I call, hating the slight tremor in my voice. "Tony?"
No response.
Before I can decide whether to retreat further into the kitchen or make a dash for the security office, the door swings open. A man I've never seen before stands in the doorway—tall, solidly built, with the cold eyes and controlled posture that mark all of Marco's associates. But something about him is different, an unfamiliar energy that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
"Ms. Gillespie," he says, his accent marking him as not local. Northern, perhaps. "Sorry to disturb you so late."
"Who are you?" I demand, backing away instinctively. "Where's Tony?"
"Tony's been called away," the man replies smoothly. "Security issue at the perimeter. Nothing to worry about."
The explanation might sound plausible, but every instinct screams danger. Tony wouldn't leave me unguarded, not after his careful escort into the house, not with Marco still absent. And he certainly wouldn't send a stranger to inform me.
"I don't believe you," I say flatly, eyes darting around the kitchen for anything that might serve as a weapon. "Tony would have told me himself."
The man's expression shifts, dropping the veneer of professionalism to reveal something harder, colder. "Smart girl," he acknowledges. "But it doesn't really matter whether you believe me or not. You're coming with me either way."
As he steps forward, I grab the closest object—the kettle, still hot from boiling water—and hurl it at him with all my strength. He dodges, but not completely, hot water splashing across his shoulder and chest. He curses, momentarily distracted by the pain, giving me the opening I need.
I bolt past him, racing toward the hallway where I last saw Tony's security detail. But the corridor is empty—no guards, no help.
Footsteps pound behind me as the intruder recovers. I sprint toward the security office, lungs burning, panic clawing at my throat. If I can reach Tony, if I can just get to someone loyal to Marco—
A hand grabs my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force. I crash to the floor, pain exploding through my shoulder and hip. Before I can scream, a large hand clamps over my mouth, another vise-like grip around my throat.
"Enough," the man hisses, his face inches from mine. "One more sound and I snap your neck, understand?"
I nod frantically, genuine terror replacing the controlled fear I've managed until now.
"Good girl," the intruder says, easing the pressure on my throat slightly. "Now here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk out of here with me, nice and quiet. You try to signal anyone, you try to run, you die. Simple as that."
His hand shifts from my mouth, ready to clamp down again at the slightest provocation. I gulp air, my mind is racing despite the terror. "Where's Tony?" I manage to ask. "The security team?"
A cold smile splits the man's face. "Bit tied up at the moment. Don't worry, they're alive. For now."
"Who are you?” I ask, playing for time while frantically trying to think of a way out of this.
The man doesn’t answer; instead, he hauls me to my feet and twists my arm behind my back painfully. "The O'Reillys send their regards. Now move."
Fear threatens to overwhelm me, but I force it down.
"Marco will kill you for this," I say as the man pushes me toward a side door I didn't even know existed. "Slowly. Painfully. You know that, right?"
"Maybe," the intruder concedes with disturbing nonchalance. "If he survives the night."
The casual statement sends ice through my veins. "What do you mean?"
He laughs, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Did you really think extracting Gerald was the whole plan? That the compound was the only trap? Your boyfriend's walking into something much worse right now."
We reach the side door, the man pausing to check the exterior before pushing me through. A black SUV waits just beyond, engine running, another man at the wheel. No other security visible.
"Get in," my captor orders, shoving me toward the vehicle.
In this moment, clarity crystallizes through the terror. If I get into that car, I'm as good as dead. Maybe not immediately—they'll want to use me as leverage against Marco first—but eventually, inevitably. And worse, if what he said about Marco walking into another trap is true, my capture eliminates any chance of warning him.
I have one option. One chance.
As he pushes me toward the SUV, I pretend to stumble, dropping to one knee. He curses, reaching down to yank me back up—and I strike, driving my elbow into his groin with every ounce of strength I possess.
He doubles over, his grip loosening just enough. I scramble away, not toward the house where I'd be cornered, but toward the garden shed I know contains tools—potential weapons—and more importantly, the service tunnel Marco showed me during a security tour weeks ago—an escape route designed for exactly this scenario.
The man recovers faster than I expected, racing after me with a roar of fury. The driver leaps from the SUV, joining the pursuit. I push harder, lungs burning, muscles screaming, fear and determination propelling me forward.
I reach the shed seconds before them, slamming the door and throwing the simple bolt lock. It won't hold them long—the door is solid but not fortified—but I don't need long. Just enough time to reach the trapdoor hidden beneath the weathered workbench.
Outside, the men slam against the door, wood splintering under their combined weight. I throw aside the threadbare rug, fingers scrabbling at the concealed handle of the trapdoor. It gives way with surprising ease revealing the dark passage below.
The shed door bursts open just as I lower myself into the passage. Hands grab at my hair, my shirt, but momentum carries me downward. I land hard on the earthen floor of the tunnel, pain shooting through my ankle at the awkward impact.
Above me, the intruder shouts to his partner, both preparing to follow. But they don't know what I know—the tunnel has security features, including a manual lock on the inside of the trapdoor. I drag myself toward it, fingers closing around the metal bar just as the first man begins to descend.
With a strength born of desperation, I slam the bar into place, sealing the entrance. Muffled curses and pounding filter through, but the trapdoor holds firm—reinforced steel beneath its wooden exterior, designed to withstand much more than angry fists.
I allow myself one moment of relief before reality reasserts itself. I've escaped immediate capture, but I'm injured.
The tunnel stretches ahead, dimly illuminated by emergency lighting that activates automatically. My ankle throbs, possibly sprained from the fall. I have no weapon, no phone, no way to communicate with Marco or anyone loyal to him.
But I do know where this tunnel leads—to a maintenance shed on the property's edge, near where Marco keeps emergency vehicles fueled and ready. If I can reach it, if I can secure transportation.
I start moving, pushing through the pain, focusing on what needs to be done rather than the terror still coursing through my system. One step at a time. Survive. Escape. Warn Marco.
The tunnel feels endless, each step sending jolts of pain up my leg. But I keep going, driven by determination stronger than fear. I will not be used against Marco. I will not be the vulnerability that brings him down.
After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I reach the tunnel's end—another trapdoor, this one leading into a small concrete room filled with monitors and communication equipment—the estate's secondary security office, housed in an unassuming outbuilding far from the main house. Marco had called it their failsafe, a backup system separate from the main security grid in case of catastrophic breach.
Like tonight.
A soft groan alerts me that I'm not alone. I spin around, heart pounding, to find a man slumped against the far wall. Relief washes over me as I recognize him—Ryan, one of Marco's security team. A quiet, efficient man with kind eyes that seemed at odds with his profession. Those eyes now look glassy with pain, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat.
"Miss Gillespie," he manages, struggling to sit up straighter. Blood seeps through a makeshift bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. "You need to hide—they've breached the perimeter."
"I know," I say, quickly moving to his side and checking his wound. The bleeding seems controlled, but he needs medical attention soon. "There were two of them in the east garden. They pursued me after I escaped through the passageway.”
"I need to reach Marco," I say, refocusing on the urgent matter at hand. "He's walking into a trap. The attack on the estate—it's a diversion."
Ryan's expression sharpens through his pain. "The communications are down in the main house, but this station has an independent system. Emergency only." He shifts, wincing, and points to a terminal in the corner. "It connects directly to the boss's inner circle. Security protocol five."
I help him to his feet, supporting his weight as we move to the terminal
Ryan lowers himself into the chair before the terminal, his fingers unsteady as he accesses the system.
"Here," Ryan says, bringing up a communications interface. "Enter code 5479, then your message. It'll go directly to Marco's secure phone. Short and clear—the system only allows sixty characters."
I stare at the keyboard, the weight of our situation crushing down on me. What can I possibly say in sixty characters that will convey the danger, the betrayal, the trap Marco is walking into? My fingers hover over the keys as I compose and discard several messages in my mind.
Finally, I type: ESTATE UNDER ATTACK. I’M FINE. YOU NEED TO GET OUT. TRAP.
Fifty-four characters. It will have to do.
I hit send, watching as the system processes the message. A small green confirmation light blinks once, then goes steady.
"Delivered," Ryan confirms, slumping back in his chair. The effort has clearly cost him, his face is even paler than before.
"What now?" I ask, helping him back to the wall where he can rest more comfortably. "How long until backup arrives?"
"Depends on where the boss is in the operation," Ryan says, his voice growing weaker. "Standard protocol is twenty minutes from message receipt to emergency response. But if they're already engaged at the O'Reilly compound..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. If Marco and his team are already in combat at the compound, they won't be able to respond to our emergency signal. We're on our own.
A sudden movement on one of the still-functioning monitors catches my attention. A solitary figure darts between hedges, staying low, moving with practiced stealth.
"Ryan, look," I point to the screen. "Someone is there?" My heart hopes it’s Marco, but I know that isn’t possible.
Ryan squints at the grainy footage, then his eyes widen in recognition. "Tony," he breathes, relief evident in his voice. "That's Tony Cahill."
"Can we communicate with him?" I ask urgently. "Let him know we're here?"
Ryan shakes his head. "Not without alerting the others. They're monitoring all standard frequencies." He gestures to his tactical vest, retrieving a small object that looks like a modified flashlight. "But we have this."
And just like that, it’s a small flicker of hope.