Chapter 17 - INTO THE LION'S DEN
Forty minutes later, a violent thunderous storm raged over the jagged pine trees of the northern black hills.
Lightning sliced through the pitch-black sky, momentarily illuminating a gothic, heavily fortified stone mansion perched atop a cliff.
Thick iron fences topped with razor wire surrounded the perimeter, guarded by armed mercenaries in dark tactical raincoats.
Mark’s battered SUV and three heavy motorcycles killed their engines a hundred yards away from the front gate.
Mark sat in the driver's seat, looking back at Sarah lying motionless across the rear seats.
Her chest barely rose and fell, her lips completely blue as a thin line of blood trickled from her nose.
He checked his watch: 42 minutes remaining.
"We don't have time to stealth our way through, Jax," Mark said, racking the slide of the 9mm pistol in his lap.
"We hit the main gate hard and fast."
Jax nodded grimly, pulling a heavy tactical shotgun from under his coat.
"On my lead!" Jax barked over the comms radio to his men.
The heavy SUV accelerated, roaring up the gravel driveway at top speed and slamming directly into the iron security gate.
The reinforced bumper shattered the lock mechanism, tearing the gate off its hinges with a deafening screech of metal.
Mercenaries on the lawn immediately opened fire, muzzle flashes flickering wildly in the heavy rain.
Jax’s bikers swerved across the driveway, returning fire with shotguns to draw the guards away from the main building.
Mark kicked open his door, sprinting through the crossfire toward the mansion's heavy oak front doors.
A guard rounded the corner with an assault rifle raised, but Mark ducked beneath the barrel, driving his fist into the man's throat and kicking his knee backward.
The guard collapsed, and Mark grabbed the heavy iron door handle, throwing his weight against it.
The heavy doors burst open into a sterile, brightly lit marble entrance hall lined with glass display cases and surveillance monitors.
Standing at the top of the grand sweeping staircase was Dr. Victor Vance.
He was an elderly man in his late 60s, wearing a pristine white lab coat over a dark suit, his silver beard trimmed with razor precision.
He held a glass of scotch in one hand, looking down at Mark with cold, amused grey eyes.
"Hello, dear nephew," Victor said smoothly, his voice echoed through the high-ceilinged hall over the sound of gunfire outside.
"I wondered how long it would take Eleanor's family drama to spill onto my doorstep."
Mark raised his handgun, pointing it directly between Victor’s eyes.
"Give me the antidote, Victor!" Mark demanded, his voice echoing like a thunderclap.
"Or I swear to God I will put a bullet through your head right now!"
Victor took a slow sip of his scotch, utterly unbothered by the weapon pointed at his face.
May you like
"You shoot me, Mark..." Victor chuckled darkly, pointing a finger toward the ceiling.
"...and your sweet wife dies in thirty minutes, because I am the only person alive who knows the vault combination."
