Chapter 6 - The Shattered Glass
The heavy oak door of the master bedroom splintered with a deafening crack.
Carl Vance, the dirty security contractor, kicked the remaining piece of wood out of the frame, his heavy boots stepping into the quiet, dark room. Behind him stood Cassandra and Wells, their faces illuminated by the green glow of the lawn lights shining through the glass walls.
"Find her," Cassandra hissed.
Vance walked slowly toward the cedar closet, a heavy iron crowbar in his hand. He didn't rush. He knew the child had nowhere to run. He tapped the metal bar against the hardwood floor with a slow, terrifying rhythm.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Lily," Vance called out, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "Come out, little girl. Your daddy’s not here to save you tonight."
Inside the closet, Lily squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into her father’s favorite wool coat. The scent of smoke and cedar was her only shield against the dark.
The crowbar wedged into the seam of the closet door. With a sickening groan of tearing wood, the lock gave way, and the door swung open.
Vance stood there, his massive shadow blocking out the light. He reached in, his thick fingers wrapping around Lily’s thin arm, and dragged her out onto the bedroom floor.
"Let me go!" Lily screamed, kicking her bare feet against his shins. "Daddy! Daddy!"
"He’s not coming, kid," Vance grunted, lifting her easily off her feet.
Suddenly, a sound shattered the night.
It was not the sound of a door opening.
It was the high-velocity, deafening roar of a helicopter engine descending directly over the mansion's roof. The glass walls of the bedroom vibrated violently, then, with a massive shatter, three of the floor-to-ceiling panels blew inward, raining sharp, glittering shards of crystal across the expensive Persian rugs.
Through the dust and the rain, three dark figures descended on ropes from the blacked-out military chopper hovering yards from the balcony.
The lead figure hit the floor, rolling forward with a grace that was entirely lethal. He rose instantly, a compact, silenced weapon in his hand.
Marcus Mercer.
Carl Vance didn't even have time to raise his weapon. Marcus’s arm moved in a blur, the butt of his pistol striking the contractor across the temple with a dull, heavy crack. Vance collapsed to the floor like a sack of wet sand, unconscious before his head hit the marble.
Marcus dropped his weapon, falling to his knees as Lily rushed forward, throwing her small arms around his neck, her tears soaking into his wet leather jacket.
"Daddy," she sobbed. "You came."
Marcus held her tightly against his chest, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of his daughter—safe, alive, and innocent.
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"I told you, baby," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking for the first time. "I always come home."
He stood up, lifting her with one arm, and turned his gaze toward the doorway where Cassandra and Wells stood frozen, their faces the color of old chalk as they looked at the man who had just dropped from the sky to claim his revenge.
