At 2:13 in the morning, Roman Vale walked into his kitchen for a glass of water and smelled blood before he saw it. He stopped beneath the archway.

The front entrance of Vale Manor disintegrated in a violent shower of splintered oak, twisted iron, and dust.

A team of four black-clad contractors poured through the breach, rifles raised, sweeping the cavernous foyer with weapon-mounted flashlights. Behind them walked a tall figure dressed in an impeccably tailored navy overcoat, his silver-tipped cane clicking rhythmically against the ruined floorboards.

Julian Vale had his brother’s height, his brother’s aristocratic jawline, but his eyes were completely hollow—cold, calculating, and devoid of humanity.

“Roman!” Julian’s voice rang out, rich with theatrical amusement. “Come now, brother! Three years of playing dead in Monaco and Zurich, and you don’t even have a glass of twenty-year Scotch waiting for me?”

From the mezzanine above, hidden behind the heavy stone balustrade, Roman watched his resurrected brother. Beside him, Claire was crouched beside the main fire-suppression junction box, two exposed copper wires in her gloved hands.

“He hasn’t changed,” Roman whispered, his grip tightening on his rifle. “Arrogant to the very end.”

“Marcus just confirmed via radio,” Claire murmured. “Arthur, David, and Daniel are inside the aqueduct tunnel. Marcus is holding the rear entrance. The path is clear.”

“Then light the fire,” Roman said.

Claire slammed the two wires together.

A series of deafening pneumatic pops detonated along the ceiling. Within seconds, dense, freezing clouds of white halon gas erupted from forty high-pressure nozzles, completely enveloping the grand rotunda in a blinding, freezing tempest.

The mercenary team shouted in confusion, their thermal scopes instantly overwhelmed by the sub-zero chemical mist. Weapons fired blindly into the whiteout, bullets chewing through the marble pillars and tearing priceless oil paintings to ribbons.

“Move!” Roman commanded.

He vaulted the balustrade, landing gracefully on the mezzanine landing, firing three precise shots that eliminated two contractors emerging from the fog. Claire followed swiftly down the spiral servant stairs, guiding them toward the subterranean entrance.

Through the swirling mist, Julian’s voice turned vicious and sharp. “Kill them! Burn the entire house to the ground! Nobody leaves this estate alive!”

Roman and Claire burst into the lower wine cellar just as Marcus was ushering the terrified elderly butler into the dark brick mouth of the drainage tunnel.

“Boss!” Marcus shouted over the roar of gunfire from the floor above. “The charges on the main pillars have been armed! We have three minutes before the upper floors collapse!”

“Get them into the tunnel and move toward the highway!” Roman ordered, pushing David and Arthur ahead. “Marcus, lead them out!”

“I’m not leaving you behind, Roman!” Marcus barked.

“That’s an executive order, Marcus! Go!”

Marcus cursed under his breath, gave Roman a grim nod, and vanished into the tunnel with the survivors.

Roman turned to Claire, grabbing her by both shoulders. “Claire, go with Marcus. Now.”

“No,” Claire said fiercely, refusing to budge. “The pneumatic release for the water gate has to be held open manually from this console until the pressure equalizes, or the grate will slam shut and drown them all! I have to hold the valve!”

Before Roman could argue, heavy footsteps pounded down the cellar stairs.