Chapter 7 - Blood in the Water
The celebration of our victory was cut short before the night ended.
At 11:30 PM, as Damian, Elena, and I were being escorted toward the private VIP exit behind the Temple of Dendur, the museum's emergency alarms suddenly blared.
The heavy iron security grates slammed down over the main exits, trapping hundreds of screaming guests inside the main galleries. The lights flickered once, twice, and plunged the back corridors into pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by red emergency strobe lights.
“Ambush!” Lev’s voice roared through the comms. “South corridor breached! Heavy fire incoming!”
Automatic gunfire erupted from the loading dock, chewing through the drywall and shattering glass display cases into millions of razor-sharp shards.
Jonathan Vale hadn't left the premises. Desperate, facing federal prison and financial ruin, the cornered beast had unleashed his private paramilitary contractors for a final, suicidal strike.
“Sofia, get behind me!” Damian barked, instantly drawing his weapon.
Two masked men in black combat gear rounded the corner, rifles raised. Damian fired twice with blinding speed. Both men dropped.
“Lev! Secure my mother in the vault room!” Damian commanded, his arm shoving Elena’s motorized chair toward a reinforced utility bunker near the restoration labs.
“Damian, no!” Elena protested.
“Go, Mother!” Damian slammed the heavy steel door behind her, locking the biometric latch. She was safe inside the impenetrable vault.
Suddenly, another volley of bullets ripped through the corridor.
A high-caliber round struck the concrete column next to Damian, sending stone fragments flying. Damian grunted, stumbling back, his left shoulder jerking violently as blood blossomed across his white dress shirt.
“Damian!” I screamed.
“I’m fine! Move!” he ordered, teeth gritted in pain.
Two more shooters emerged from the smoke. Damian raised his gun, firing with his right hand, dropping one, but his magazine clicked empty on the second.
The remaining shooter leveled his assault rifle directly at Damian’s chest.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed a heavy bronze restoration statuette from a nearby display pedestal and threw it with all my strength. It struck the shooter squarely in the side of his tactical helmet, knocking his aim off just as he pulled the trigger.
The bullets chewed into the ceiling, raining plaster down on us.
The split second of distraction was all Damian needed. He closed the distance like a wounded panther, his right arm locking around the shooter’s neck in a brutal grapple, twisting with terrifying leverage until the man collapsed limp to the floor.
Damian sagged against the wall, breathing heavily. Blood poured from the graze on his shoulder, soaking his tailored tuxedo.
I ran to him, tearing the midnight-blue silk wrap from my shoulders and pressing it firmly against the wound.
“Press down,” I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. “Hold it, Damian!”
Damian looked down at me through the pulsing red emergency lights. His face was pale from blood loss, but his eyes were blazing with an intensity that burned hotter than fire.
“You saved my life,” he whispered, his chest heaving against mine. “Again.”
“You’re an idiot,” I sobbed, tears cutting through the soot on my cheeks as I pressed harder against his bleeding shoulder. “You’re a reckless, arrogant idiot who thinks he’s bulletproof!”
“Sofia...”
“Shut up! Don't talk! Just hold the fabric!”
Damian reached up with his uninjured right hand, cupping the back of my neck. He pulled me toward him with sudden, irresistible force.
His mouth crashed onto mine.
The kiss was desperate, violent, and utterly consuming. It tasted of copper, smoke, and pure, raw survival. All the unspoken tension, all the stolen glances, all the nights of guarding our hearts shattered into dust. I gripped the lapels of his ruined tuxedo, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a fierce, hungry desperation that matched his own.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, his breathing was ragged.
“I am not bulletproof,” Damian whispered, his gray eyes piercing straight into my soul. “I never was. But I would take a thousand bullets before I let anyone touch a single hair on your head.”
Before I could speak, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Lev and four heavily armed Volkov operatives rounded the corner, their weapons raised. When they saw Damian alive, standing over the fallen mercenaries, Lev let out a massive breath of relief.
“Boss! The perimeter is clear. Vale’s men are neutralized. NYPD tactical units have surrounded the exterior.”
Damian slowly pulled away from me, his jaw hardening into lethal resolve.
“Where is Jonathan Vale?” Damian asked, his voice dripping with venom.
Lev’s face darkened.
“He fled through the subway access tunnels during the fire alarm, sir. And he took Cassandra with him. But that’s not the worst of it.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”
Lev looked at me, his expression filled with dread.
“While the strike team hit the museum... a secondary unit breached the Lincoln Prep safehouse.”
The world stopped spinning. The blood froze in my veins.
“Marco,” I whispered, the word barely a breath.
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“They took him, Ms. Reyes,” Lev said, looking down. “Jonathan Vale left a radio frequency in the van. He wants an exchange.”
***