The door handle rattled again—a violent, impatient jerk that told me the man on the other side wasn't interested in stealth anymore. He knew his partner was down. He knew the clock was ticking.
My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to choke me. I looked at the silenced pistol in my hand. It felt oily and wrong, a heavy piece of metal designed for one thing only. I was a surgeon. My hands were meant to repair life, to stitch together the broken, to find the pulse in the darkness. They weren't meant for this.
But then I thought of Leo, huddled behind a plastic dryer in a dark laundry room, and the "Doctor" in me went cold.
"Leo, stay quiet," I whispered, though I knew he couldn't hear me through the heavy door.
I didn't wait for the door to burst open. I knew these high-end locks; they were reinforced against a shoulder-shove, but a professional with a master-key override would have it open in seconds. I moved to the side of the entrance, flattening myself against the wall, the same way I'd seen security details do in the movies. Except this wasn't a movie. The smell of the unconscious guard's cheap cologne was filling the hallway, mixed with the metallic tang of blood from where I'd hit him.
Click.
The door swung inward.
The second intruder didn't rush in. He was smarter than the first one. He led with his weapon, the barrel of a submachine gun peeking around the doorframe first. He was looking for a target in the center of the room. He didn't expect the target to be standing three inches to his left.
I didn't use the gun. Not yet. I reached out and grabbed the barrel of his weapon, wrenching it upward with everything I had. The man let out a grunt of surprise, his eyes widening behind a black tactical mask. He was strong—much stronger than me—but I had the advantage of leverage and pure, unadulterated motherly terror.
We slammed into the console table, the expensive marble top cracking under the weight of our bodies. He threw a punch that caught me in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I gasped, the pain hot and sharp, but I didn't let go of the gun.
"Where is the boy?" he hissed, his voice a distorted rasp through the mask.
"Nowhere you'll ever find him," I spat.
I remembered my anatomy. I knew exactly where the brachial plexus sat—the cluster of nerves in the shoulder that, if hit with enough force, can paralyze the entire arm. I didn't have a scalpel, but I had the heel of my palm. I drove it into the gap between his neck and shoulder with every ounce of strength I possessed.
He let out a strangled yelp, his grip on the submachine gun faltering as his left arm went limp. I didn't give him a second to recover. I drove my knee into his midsection and pushed him back. He stumbled over his unconscious partner, and for a split second, he was off-balance.
I raised the pistol I'd taken from the first man. My finger hovered over the trigger.
Just do it, Chloe. End it. But before I could pull the trigger, the doorway was flooded with light and movement. Asher arrived.
There was a flicker of genuine surprise on his face when he saw the two men on the floor and me standing over them, pointing a gun at their heads.
"Chloe," he began, his voice surprisingly tight.
"You're late," I snapped, not lowering the weapon for a heartbeat. "And you're sloppy. Your 'protection' was supposed to keep people away from my door, not deliver them to it."
Asher's eyes darkened, but he didn't argue. He signaled to his men, who moved in with terrifying efficiency. They didn't check pulses; they simply dragged the two men out of the penthouse like bags of trash. I knew they wouldn't be going to a police station. They wouldn't even be going to a hospital. Whatever happened next, it wouldn't happen in my house, and it certainly wouldn't happen in front of my son.
"Get them out of here," Asher commanded, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. He turned back to me, reaching for the gun in my hand. "Give me the weapon, Chloe. It's over."
"Not yet," I countered, pulling the gun back. "Who the heck are these men? If you aren't responsible for this, how the heck did you manage to get in here?" I asked, my voice dripping with clear accusation.
"You are unbelievable, Chloe," he said, stepping into my space. "Just because you have high-tech biometric locks doesn't necessarily mean you are untouchable. If these guys could get in without your permission, what makes you think that I, of all people, couldn't? Anyway, enough talking. Where is Leo?"
I swallowed hard. I would rather die than give him the satisfaction of knowing I agreed with him. "He is somewhere safe."
"Go get him and grab some things you'll need for a few days. You guys aren't safe here anymore. You are coming with me," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.
I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "If you think we are leaving here with you, then you must be joking."
His eyes darkened with an anger I haven't seen in years. It was cold, deep, and dangerous.
"Chloe…" he said through clenched teeth, leaning down until we were eye-to-eye. "You don't want to dare me tonight. Not after what I just saw. If you don't give a damn about your safety or Leo's, I do. And you are going to do exactly as I say. Right now."
I opened my mouth to bite back, but a soft, mechanical beep came from the hallway. My tablet, still linked to the security hub, was flashing red.
I looked down and my blood turned to ice. It wasn't just a breach anymore. The "Shadow" wasn't outside. A new message had appeared on the screen, addressed to neither me nor Asher, but to our son.
"Ready for the big house, Leo? The dogs are waiting."