Chapter 5 - The Siege on the Cliff
The heavy iron security shutters of the Bellweather ballroom slammed down over the arched glass windows with deafening, mechanical thuds.
The lights flickered, cutting out for three agonizing seconds before the red emergency halogens illuminated the hall in a bloody, dramatic glow.
From the service corridors, eight heavily armed tactical contractors in dark ballistic vests, carrying suppressed carbines, breached the ballroom.
“Sterling’s private militia!” Frank Callahan, Adrian’s head of security, shouted, drawing his weapon and forming a protective perimeter around the dais.
Gunfire erupted across the grand ballroom.
Rounds tore through the antique mirrors, shattering plaster and sending showers of crystal rain down upon the Persian rugs.
Adrian threw his arm around my waist, pulling me down behind the solid mahogany dining platform. He fired three precise, controlled double-taps over the oak barricade, dropping the two lead shooters before they could establish a firing line.
“Clara!” Adrian called out, reloading his magazine with a sharp, fluid snap. “Can you access the estate’s automated defense grid from your tablet?”
“I wrote the override algorithm three hours before we landed in Newport!” I replied, pulling my sleek aluminum device from my evening clutch.
My fingers flew across the screen with blistering speed. I bypassed the local router, routed the signal through our private satellite transponder in Munich, and initiated Protocol Iron Vault.
“Access Granted: Override Administrator Clara Kane.”
I tapped the screen three times.
Across the sixty-foot ballroom ceiling, the automated fire-suppression and non-lethal acoustic neutralization arrays deployed with a deafening, pneumatic hiss.
High-frequency sonic pulses tore through the room at 130 decibels, instantly disorienting the eight mercenary contractors, causing them to drop their weapons and clutch their ears in screaming agony.
Within four seconds, Adrian’s tactical operators swarmed the floor, pinning the contractors face-down against the marble, securing their wrists and ankles in heavy steel transport zip-ties.
The room fell into a dead, ringing silence, broken only by the crackle of burning velvet and the sound of the ocean storm crashing against the cliffs outside.
Adrian stood up, holstering his weapon, and extended a hand to pull me up from behind the oak barrier.
He looked down at me—at the woman who had just neutralized an armed assault with five keystrokes—his slate-gray eyes burning with an awe and passion so fierce it stole my breath.
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“You really are dangerous, Miss Roberts,” Adrian murmured softly.
“I told you, Mr. Kane,” I smiled, dusting drywall from my velvet gown. “I handle the logistics.”
