“You’re a poison,” I said, my voice low, deadly. “You don’t know what this country is.”
He laughed again, that booming sound, and flipped the script, his grin widening.
“Let’s end it, water under the bridge. I want you to know your father’s dirty secrets, Silas. Trust me, there are plenty. He wasn’t the saint you boys think.”
He turned to a guard, his voice sharp. “Get Caroline.”
I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs. I played shocked, my eyes widening, my breath catching, and it worked, his laugh echoing again, smug and cruel.
“Ready to see your mother, boy?”
The guard returned, and my mother strode in, her posture regal, her storm-gray eyes cool. She nodded at her father, then looked at me, her voice calm, simple.
“Hello, Silas.”
I leaned into the act, my face a mask of shock, my eyes wide, my mouth open.
My grandfather laughed again, oblivious, his voice mocking. “Just like old times, the Danes back together. Though Caroline hasn’t called herself a Dane in years, have you, sweetheart?”
She played along, her smile tight, her eyes scanning the room, taking in the guards, the bed, the exits.
I watched her, my mind racing, wondering what her move was.
Two bodyguards flanked my grandfather, their rifles ready, their eyes sharp.
I flexed my wrists, the zip ties straining, ready to snap.
Then a gunshot cracked from somewhere in the house, sharp and distant. The bodyguards moved—one toward the bed, one toward the door, their focus shifting. Caroline’s hand moved, swift, pulling a suppressed pistol from her jacket, and fired three rounds into the guard at the door, his body dropping before he could react.
I snapped the zip ties, lunging for the guard by the bed, my hands grappling for his rifle. We scuffled, his elbow catching my jaw, pain flaring, but I held on, my fingers clawing for the weapon.
More gunshots echoed, closer now, and the door burst open, a bloodied guard—my grandfather’s—stumbling in, his eyes wild.
Caroline turned, her pistol steady, and took him down with a single shot to the head.
I wrestled the rifle from my guard, my muscles straining, and in a smooth move, I spun behind him, my arms wrapping around his head. I snapped his neck, the crack loud in the chaos, his body slumping to the floor.
“You!” my grandfather roared, pointing at Caroline, his voice a thunderclap despite his frail frame.
She smiled, grim and cold. “No, Dad. This time it’s you.”
Her pistol barked, unloading the entire magazine into his chest, blood blooming across his gown, his oxygen tubes dangling uselessly. He slumped back, his eyes wide, lifeless, the skeleton of a man finally silenced.
The room was a war zone now, gunshots echoing through the house, shouts and crashes filling the air. I dove for the discarded rifle, my hands steady, and crouched behind the bed as another bodyguard rushed in, his weapon blazing, bullets tearing into the wall above my head.
I rolled, took aim, and fired, dropping him with three clean shots to the chest, his body hitting the marble with a thud.
The side door—the one my mother had entered through—flew open, and my heart stopped. Another bodyguard, rifle raised, stormed in, my mother yelling clipped orders to him, telling him to go back the way he’d come, to watch the back of the house.
But then Portia burst in, her black outfit stark against the chaos, her eyes wide with fear and fire.
“Silas!” she screamed, and the bodyguard spun, his rifle swinging toward her.
My mother moved faster, throwing herself between the enemy and Portia.
The gunshot was deafening, my mother’s frame jerking as the bullet tore through her back, blood spraying. She stumbled but didn’t fall, her pistol dropping.
I rose from behind the bed and fired—two rounds to the guard’s head, his body collapsing before he could shoot again.
