Seated in a leather desk chair in the mansion's library, Rafe watched his laptop's monitor. It carried live feed from the operation in the field, offering multiple viewpoints via cameras mounted on the black helmets of his mercenaries. It was a jumbling viewpoint that threatened to turn his stomach, but he couldn't look away.
He had watched the initial assault as power and telephone feeds were cut, all exits under close watch. Four shell-shocked students stumbled out of various doors, escaping the dark building. They were quickly dispatched, their bodies whisked into hiding. The assault team continued inside, searching floor by floor for their targets.
He was not surprised that the power loss had failed to flush out his targets as it had the few students. After the events in the mountains, his prey had grown more wary, but his men had been handpicked by Bern for both their thoroughness and ruthlessness. Their targets would be found.
On one corner of the laptop screen, Bern turned his camera toward his own face, indicating he wanted to report in from the field. His voice was a bit choppy from the digital feed. "Sir, all the upper levels are clear. That leaves only the basement. The team's heading down."
"Very good." Rafe drew his face closer to the screen, eager to watch.
So they fled into the cellars, like so many frightened rats. No matter. I've got the best rat catchers money can buy.
A whimper drew his attention to a wingback chair by the fire. Flames danced, casting shadows-but none darker than his black queen, Ashanda, who sat in the chair, holding a small boy, no older than four. The child's face was a ruin of tears and mucus. His eyes were wide with shock and fear. They probably should have moved the body of his mother from the room, but there'd been no time for such niceties. The woman lay on the Persian rug, her blood and brain matter ruining the subtlety of the wool pattern.
Ashanda stared into the flames and gently stroked the boy's hair. One of Bern's men had offered to alleviate the boy's suffering with the swift skill of his blades, but Ashanda had backhanded the muscular mercenary away as if he were a rag doll, in order to protect the child.
Ever the caretaker.
Rafe sighed. The boy would still have to be dealt with, but not when Ashanda was watching.
Until then...
He faced the screen, giving it his full concentration.
Back to the show.