Chapter 3 - The Trap SprungThe acrid smell of burning upholstery and electrical smoke filled the air within seconds. The explosion downstairs had blown out the main staircase, cutting off our primary route to the ground floor.
“Elena! Stay behind me!” Roman shouted over the screaming alarms, ripping open the master bedroom door and grabbing a heavy fire extinguisher from the hallway cabinet.
He discharged it toward the billowing black clouds rising from the stairwell, beating back the flames just enough to clear a narrow path to the service corridor at the back of the house. But the heat was already unbearable, and the structural beams above us groaned ominously under the intense fire.
“The roof hatch!” Roman yelled, grabbing my hand. “The fire department was already pinged by the automated alarms, but we can’t wait for them. The smoke is too thick; we need to get to the upper terrace!”
We scrambled down the hallway toward the private terrace stairs, coughing violently as the toxic air burned our throats. My eight-month belly made every movement agonizingly slow, and my swollen ankles throbbed with every step.
Suddenly, a heavy crack echoed through the corridor. A large section of the ceiling plaster collapsed directly behind us, crashing onto the floor and blocking our retreat.
“Roman!” I screamed as a shower of sparks rained down around us.
“I’ve got you!” He scooped me up into his arms, ignoring my weight and his own exhaustion, and carried me out onto the open-air terrace where the cool night wind offered a brief, desperate gasp of clean air.
Below us, the front lawn was already illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of arriving fire trucks and police cruisers. But amidst the chaos, a sleek black sedan was parked suspiciously near the security gates, and standing beside it, watching the burning mansion with binoculars, was a tall figure in a tailored grey suit.
Victor Kane.
He had come to watch his masterpiece burn.
“Roman, look down there,” I gasped, pointing over the terrace railing. “It’s him. Kane is down there.”
Roman’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated fury. He set me down gently against the stone pillar of the terrace, shielding my body with his own broad frame.
“He thinks he’s won,” Roman whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.
Just then, footsteps pounded up the exterior fire escape stairs behind us. I whipped around, expecting Kane’s hitmen. Instead, Serena Cross burst onto the terrace, coughing and clutching a singed leather briefcase to her chest.
“Roman!” Serena cried out, stumbling toward us. “The network servers in the basement are gone! The whole ground floor is engulfed! But I got the physical hard drives from the safe. Kane’s entire offshore ledger is right here!”
Roman grabbed the briefcase from her hands, checking the heavy biometric lock. It clicked green. He had the evidence.
“Good work, Serena,” Roman said grimly. “Now get out of here. Take the fire escape down to the police perimeter. Tell Captain Miller that Kane’s operative is waiting by the black sedan at the gates.”
Serena nodded, throwing a brief, empathetic glance at me before sprinting back toward the metal stairs.
That was when the heavy glass doors leading from the mansion interior onto the terrace shattered.
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Through the boiling smoke stepped two men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by ski masks, automatic rifles raised and pointed straight at our chests.
“Drop the briefcase, Rinaldi,” one of them barked, his voice distorted by a throat mic. “Or the pregnant bitch dies right here.”
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