Chapter 9 - The Trap in the Rose Garden
Aaron didn't think about the pain in her abdomen. She didn't think about the freezing rain soaking through her wool trousers.
She moved.
She took the remaining six stone steps in two frantic, sliding drops, hitting the muddy gravel of the terrace path with a dull thud. Her knees buckled slightly, but the adrenaline surging through her veins numbed the fire in her sutures. She ducked low, throwing herself into the deep shadow of an eight-foot boxwood hedge that bordered the formal rose garden.
Behind her, at the front of the mansion, three vehicle doors slammed in rapid, concussive succession.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sounds were heavy, professional, devoid of shouting. Through the dense greenery, Aaron heard the distinct, metallic clack-clack of semi-automatic rifle bolts being cycled into battery.
"Check the perimeter feeds," a voice barked through the rain—a harsh, Chicago accent that carried on the wind with terrifying clarity. "Carmine said the north wing. The girl and the kid are upstairs. Make it look like an electrical fire in the nursery. No shell casings on the floor."
"What about Roman?" another voice asked, lower, rougher.
"Roman is at the restaurant with Laya," the first voice replied with a dry, venomous chuckle. "He's establishing his alibi in front of twenty witnesses. By the time he gets the call from the fire department, the Kenosha contracts will already be signed. Move."
Aaron pressed her back flat against the wet earth beneath the hedge, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Inside her coat, Sophie stirred again. The cold air, the sudden drop in temperature, and the muffled shouting had reached the infant's senses. The baby’s small mouth opened, her tiny chest expanding to let out a cry.
Aaron reacted with the savage, desperate instinct of a mother cornered by wolves.
She slipped her bare, freezing index finger into Sophie’s mouth, pressing the clean pad of her finger gently against the roof of the baby’s palate. Sophie’s natural suckling reflex engaged instantly, her tiny tongue wrapping around Aaron's finger, swallowing the cry before it could escape into the rainy night.
Tears streamed down Aaron's face, mixing with the freezing rain that dripped from her eyelashes.
Ten yards to the greenhouse, she thought, her eyes fixed on the dark outline of the glass structure ahead. Just ten yards.
She crawled on her knees through the wet mulch and thorns of the dormant rose bushes, her free hand dragging her heavy duffel bag through the mud. Every forward movement was agony; the rough twigs tore at the fabric of her coat, scratching her cheeks, but she kept her body arched over Sophie, creating a living, breathing shield of flesh and bone.
She reached the corner of the brick foundation that anchored the greenhouse.
Above her, on the third floor of the mansion, a sudden, blinding flash of orange light reflected across the rain-swept grass.
The windows of Sophie’s pink nursery shattered outward in a concussive roar of breaking glass and rolling black smoke.
An incendiary charge.
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The flames erupted through the decorative curtains, licking up the exterior limestone wall, consuming the blush velvet, the white-gold crib, the hand-embroidered blankets—everything she had built to welcome her daughter into the world.
If she had stayed in that room five minutes longer, they would both be ash.
