The sight of Marcus tied to a heavy wooden chair beneath a single hanging light, his Armani suit torn by the shoulders and chest, one eye swollen shut, and dried blood along his temple down to his jaw shook Henry to his core.
Twenty minutes earlier….
As his father's black armoured SUV raced through the sleeping city that night, Henry sat in the passenger seat with his father, his jaw clenched tightly from fear for his brother's life and also his father.
There was a nagging feeling deep within him as though he was somehow responsible for the situation. How would he explain it to his father without incurring his wrath or losing his love?
The head of their security team, Olivia Mason, sat in the front seat, quietly checking surveillance and scouring the satellite network on her iPad while on call with the team she had sent ahead of them. “We've got something, sir,” she said with a glance at Victor.
“Go on. Let's hear it,” Henry spoke instead, tapping his thigh.
She nodded. “Marcus left his microphone open longer than we realised. I used it to isolate background sounds and found the chapel.”
“Where?” Victor's voice boomed in the quiet car.
“An abandoned vineyard outside Ashford Estate.” She turned to her colleague driving, “step on it.”
Within minutes, their SUV stopped behind a row of abandoned grapevines that stretched across the hillside, the chapel with a faded blue roof standing adjacent to it in silence.
Their security team had circled the building, awaiting instructions from Olivia. “Eight heat signatures, sirs,” she said, “but one is sitting on the ground, restrained. I want to believe that's Marcus.”
Victor nodded, trying to put on a bulletproof vest. Henry snatched it from him, drawing a deep frown from his Dad. “Please, Dad. No heroics. I'll go inside with the team.” His eyes pleaded while Victor narrowed his for a moment before nodding.
He placed a firm hand on Henry's shoulder. “I want you both alive with me soon. Hear me? Now, go.”
As the team burst through the back door, Henry behind them, the smell of stale cigar smoke and blood assaulted their noses before the deafening sound of gunshots and bullets flying through the air forced them to dive for cover.
“Henry!” Olivia shouted, seeing him unconscious on the ground, blood streaming down from his temple.
[To be continued]
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "riot”.
Thank you for visiting my blog.
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