Chapter 55 - The Battle for the Study
Before I could stop him, Arthur kicked the cast-iron fireback with the heel of his boot.
The heavy iron plate flew outward into the room with a thunderous *bang*, smashing into the back of the operative operating the hydraulic ram. The man collapsed with a sickening crunch, pinning the hydraulic tool against the desk.
"Drop the halon!" Arthur roared, throwing himself through the hearth into the study with his cane raised like a club.
Evelyn threw a canister of smoke through the opening while I slammed the obsidian card into the emergency wall port behind the chimney frame. Instantly, every light in the mansion died. The deafening hiss of pressurized halon gas erupted from four industrial vents in the ceiling, a high-pitched scream that drowned out the shouting.
"Ambush!" Sterling’s voice cut through the chaos, followed instantly by the staccato bark of an automatic rifle firing blind into the darkness.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the dense white fog of halon and smoke, illuminating terrifying snapshots of violence: Evelyn diving behind the mahogany desk, returning fire with double-taps that dropped the second operative; Arthur sweeping his oak cane into the knee of the third guard, the steel tip of the cane deploying a hidden six-inch blade that severed the man's femoral artery; and my father, screaming in terror as he clawed at his throat, suffocating in the oxygen-depleted air.
I burst through the hearth, my rebreather clamped over my face, the Colt .45 heavy in my grip. Through the strobing flashes, I saw Sterling draw a suppressed sidearm, leveling it directly at Arthur’s back.
"Grandpa!" I screamed.
I fired twice. The heavy .45 rounds punched into Sterling’s chest armor, knocking the commander off balance, his shot deflecting wild into the plaster ceiling. Sterling dropped to one knee, coughing blood as the halon starved his lungs, his colorless eyes locking onto mine with feral hatred.
He raised his weapon again, but Evelyn lunged from the shadow of the desk, driving the barrel of her rifle beneath his chin and pulling the trigger. The crack of the shot was deafening in the confined space. Sterling crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Through the fog, only two people were left standing on the other side of the room.
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My mother, her face blue from the lack of oxygen, leaning against the window frame—and my father, crawling on his hands and knees toward the door, gasping like a fish pulled onto dry sand.
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