Chapter 11 - THE DESCENT.
The grandfather clock in the corner of the master suite ticked with agonizing slowness.
Marcus smiled, a chilling expression that conveyed both respect and finality.
I did not have time to kill him, and I certainly did not have time to interrogate him further.
I stepped forward, driving the heavy steel barrel of my pistol directly into his temple.
Marcus slumped sideways in the leather armchair, instantly unconscious before his glass of scotch even hit the floor.
Twenty miles in ten minutes was a mathematical impossibility in any standard vehicle.
I needed something that did not rely on the winding, treacherous mountain switchbacks.
I bolted from the master suite, sprinting back down the marble corridor while ignoring the groans of the mercenaries I had incapacitated earlier.
Bursting through the heavy oak doors that led to the estate's private garage, I found exactly what I was praying for.
Sitting in the center of the polished concrete floor was a customized, military-grade dirt bike.
It was painted matte black, stripped of all unnecessary weight, and fitted with deep-tread tires designed for vertical mountain ascents.
I threw my leg over the seat, turning the ignition key that had been carelessly left in the console.
The engine roared to life with a deafening, aggressive snarl that echoed off the garage walls.
I kicked the gearshift into first, twisting the throttle and launching the bike forward like a ballistic missile.
The glass doors of the garage shattered into a million glittering pieces as I blasted through them and out into the freezing night air.
I did not steer toward the paved driveway that wound slowly down the mountain.
Instead, I banked hard to the right, aiming the front tire directly at the steep, densely wooded cliff face.
Gravity took hold immediately, pulling the heavy machine down the near-vertical drop at a terrifying speed.
The wind whipped against my face, freezing the sweat on my forehead as I dodged massive pine trees by mere inches.
My headlights cut a frantic, bouncing path through the absolute darkness of the forest.
Branches whipped against my kevlar jacket, tearing at the fabric as I pushed the bike to its absolute mechanical limits.
Every rock and hidden ditch threatened to throw me over the handlebars to a sudden, violent death.
But the image of Lily’s terrified little face fueled a desperate, reckless precision in my movements.
I squeezed the brakes rhythmically, sliding the back tire out to navigate the sharp, muddy embankments.
At the bottom of a massive ravine, the trees suddenly cleared, revealing the flat, desolate expanse of the valley floor.
I hit the flat ground hard, the suspension bottoming out with a painful jolt that rattled my spine.
In the distance, barely visible through the thick midnight fog, a runway illuminated with harsh blue landing lights cut across the dark earth.
At the far end of the runway, the sleek silver fuselage of a private Gulfstream jet gleamed under the floodlights.
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The jet's twin engines were already whining, a high-pitched scream that signaled an imminent departure.
I twisted the throttle until it locked, shooting across the open valley like a bullet fired straight into the heart of my mother’s empire.
