Chapter 8: Asphyxiation
7:50 PM. The Vanguard penthouse was completely dark, save for the emergency exit signs glowing an eerie, bloody red. Arthur was huddled behind the marble kitchen island, a heavy bronze statue clutched in his shaking hands. Eleanor was locked inside the master suite's panic room, having abandoned her son the moment the lights were cut.
Silas's team had bypassed the mag-locks through the ventilation shafts. They moved like shadows, wearing night-vision goggles and silent tactical gear. They had a job to do, and a hard deadline of 8:00 PM.
They found the panic room quickly. It was a reinforced steel box, but its weakness was its closed-loop air circulation system. Silas attached a small, unassuming canister to the intake valve. It wasn't an explosive; it was a colorless, odorless displacement gas. It would simply push the oxygen out of the room. Peaceful. Invisible. Deadly.
Meanwhile, two other operatives swept the living room. Arthur, driven by a sudden, hysterical surge of adrenaline, swung the heavy bronze statue at the first shadow that approached him. The operative dodged effortlessly, sweeping Arthur's legs out from under him. Arthur crashed to the marble, the breath knocked from his lungs.
A heavy boot pressed down on his chest, pinning him. He looked up into the darkness, hyperventilating. A syringe, glinting in the faint red light, hovered above his neck.
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Suddenly, the front doors of the penthouse exploded inward with deafening force. Splinters of heavy oak showered the room. Flashlights cut through the darkness, blinding Silas's men. Marcus Thorne’s heavily armed cleanup crew had arrived.
The silence of the assassination was shattered by the roaring thunder of automatic gunfire.
