Chapter 4 - The Greenhouse
Hayes drove like a madman, tires screaming as we took the backroads toward my childhood home.
"My father," I said, gripping the dashboard. "Where is he?"
"If I know Arthur," Hayes gritted through the pain, "he's waiting exactly where this all started."
We skidded to a halt a block away from the house. It was pitch black. No lights were on inside. But parked in the driveway was Irina’s silver sedan.
We crept through the neighbor's yard, slipping through the shadows until we reached the backyard. At the edge of the property sat the massive glass greenhouse where my father spent all his time. Where he had supposedly died three days ago.
Inside, illuminated by a single hanging bulb, was a nightmare.
Elena was tied to a chair, holding our terrified daughter. Standing over them was Irina, a suppressed pistol in her hand. Two armed mercenaries stood at the greenhouse doors.
"We can't just storm in," Hayes whispered. "I'm injured, and there are two of them with tactical advantages."
Before I could respond, a shadow detached itself from the canopy of the large oak tree beside the greenhouse. A figure dropped silently to the ground.
He was dressed in dark clothing, moving with a fluid, lethal grace that I completely failed to recognize. He stepped up behind the first mercenary and, in one swift motion, neutralized him, lowering the body silently to the grass.
The figure stepped into the dim light.
It was my father.
He looked older, harder, but his eyes were blazing with a fierce, protective fire. He caught my eye through the glass, gave a sharp nod, and then kicked the greenhouse doors wide open.
"Irina!" my father bellowed, raising a weapon of his own.
The second mercenary spun around, but Hayes had already lined up his shot from the darkness. Crack. The mercenary dropped.
Irina didn't flinch. She pressed the barrel of her gun against Elena's head.
"Put it down, Arthur," Irina said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You cost my employers billions tonight. The least I can do is erase your legacy."
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"It's over, Irina," my father said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The accounts are frozen. The safe houses are raided. Volkov is already in federal custody. You have no one to report to."
Irina's eyes flickered, just for a fraction of a second. It was the only tell she had. She realized she was fighting for a ghost empire.
