Chapter 88 - Blood on the Conservatories
Two Iron Guard sentries stationed at the entrance of the conservatory spun toward the sound of shattering glass, their assault rifles coming up instantly.
They were fast—inhumanly fast. Their movements had none of the hesitation typical of ordinary soldiers.
Naomi was faster.
She fired four rounds before her boots even found purchase on the marble floor. Two rounds shattered the visor of the first soldier; two penetrated the neck seam of the second. But even as the first man dropped, the second lunged forward despite a catastrophic throat injury, his combat blade flashing toward Naomi’s jugular with mechanical fury.
*Generation Ten,* Naomi thought, sidestepping the strike by millimeters. *They don't register shock trauma.*
She caught the operative's striking wrist with her left hand—the iron maid’s grip that had never failed—twisted his arm until the radius snapped like dry kindling, and slammed her elbow into the base of his skull. The concussive force crushed his brainstem. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Outside, the crack of gunfire echoed from the front courtyard. Ethan was engaging the perimeter sentries, drawing fire away from the main house.
Naomi moved through the conservatory like smoke, slipping into the long gallery that led toward the kitchen and the cellar stairs. The floor was strewn with overturned mahogany tables, shredded oil paintings of Whitmore ancestors, and empty brass casings.
Near the base of the grand stairs, she found Henderson.
The old butler was slumped against the wall, his white shirt soaked with blood, his breathing shallow and rattling.
"Henderson," Naomi knelt beside him, pressing a sterile combat dressing against his chest wound.
The butler opened his dimming eyes, recognizing the face beneath the tactical mask. A faint, sad smile touched his cracked lips. "Miss... Miss Naomi. You're late... for tea."
"Save your breath," she ordered softly, her fingers working with surgical precision to seal the sucking chest wound. "Ethan is in the courtyard. The perimeter will be clear in two minutes."
"Julian... he is in the cellar," Henderson choked out, grabbing her sleeve with trembling fingers. "Lady Whitmore... he’s going to execute her, Naomi. The vault... he’s already inside."
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"He won't leave this house alive," Naomi promised.
She rose, leaving the butler secured behind a heavy antique credenza, and racked the slide of her weapon as she stepped toward the arched doorway leading down into the dark.
