Private Dublin

Chapter 92

The panic room was accessed through a concealed panel in the wall, which retracted from the corner of the room.

“Come in with me,” Justine pleaded. “Let’s call the cops.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I replied, ushering her into the tiny, secure space. “Please trust me. I need you to do that. Remember: don’t come out. No matter what.”

“Jack, you’re scaring me,” she said.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I told her, and leaned in for a kiss. “Trust me.”

She nodded reluctantly, and I watched her move to the console where the home-security system was displaying footage of the interior of my house, recording everything that happened. She pressed the button that shut and locked the armored panel, and I stepped away, satisfied she was safe.

I crept across the hallway and went to my bedroom. I had a gun-safe in my closet where I kept my personal arsenal, but I didn’t need to waste any time. I’d prepared for this eventuality and had a pistol ready in the top drawer of my dresser. I grabbed it and held it ready as I went downstairs, slowly and silently.

I heard movement by the French doors that opened onto the terrace and went toward the sound. A masked man with a pistol in his hand came into view, creeping along the terrace and heading for the open doors.

I ducked behind the wall quickly, confident the sound of the ocean would mask my footsteps. If he’d heard me, he showed no sign but came through the door oblivious to my presence.

“Freeze,” I whispered, and the man turned, startled.

I clocked him in the face with my pistol, catching him on the ear. As he doubled over in pain and waved his gun in my direction, I swung mine down and hit the back of his head, knocking him senseless.

He fell in a heap. At the same time I heard the shattering of glass and went to the kitchen, where I peered round the doorway to see a masked man unlocking a window he’d broken. As he clambered inside, I felt something hard and cold press against my temple and realized someone had pressed a gun to my head. One of his accomplices had got the jump on me.

“Don’t move,” the man beside me said.

I turned and tried to bring my pistol up toward him, but he blocked the move and knocked the gun out of my hand. He lashed out with his own weapon, but I ducked and rolled and reached my hand beside a kitchen cabinet, where I kept a baseball bat as a last line of home defense.

I swung it at the gunman and knocked the pistol from his hand before driving the thick end into his nose and knocking him cold.

Before I could reach for my pistol, the second man grabbed me, and we fell into a grapple against one of the counters. I used the bat to knock the gun out of his hand, but he reached for a butcher’s knife and lunged for me.

I parried with the bat and rolled clear of the next attack. I swung and caught his forearm, causing him to drop the blade, which landed with a clatter. I didn’t waste a moment in pressing my advantage.

As he stepped back and tried to find another weapon, I kicked his right knee, caught him on the shoulder with a heavy blow from the bat, and swung the pommel into his face, dazing him. I followed this combination with a headbutt that knocked him flat.

The front door caved in with a crack and crash of wood splintering, and I grabbed my gun and ran into the hallway to see three more masked men enter my home.

The first rushed me, and we wrestled for control of my gun. I pulled the trigger and the sound of two gunshots deafened me, but neither of us relinquished our hold. His accomplices joined the fray, trying to pull me off the weapon. I knew if I let go, I was a dead man, so I clung to the gun and wrenched it clear, but the momentum was too great and I lost my hold on it. The pistol spun clear across the room and hit the far wall

The trio pushed me clear of their scrum and the nearest tried to shoot me, but I ducked and drove my fist into his groin. The crack of the gunshot was so loud it stung in my ears, but I didn’t miss a beat. As he doubled over in pain, I swung my elbow up into his face, breaking his nose and knocking him cold.

I pushed past him as he fell and squared up to his two accomplices, who trained their pistols on me. I wasn’t afraid but rushed at them and threw my fists at the taller of the two. I sidestepped his shot and moved between the men. I drove my elbow into the taller one’s face and punched his accomplice in the jaw. Both dazed, they staggered back clutching their heads. I didn’t hesitate, knocking them down with a furious combination of punches.

Their bodies fell with heavy thuds. In the stillness that followed, I heard nothing but the roll and crash of the ocean.

Then came footsteps and the voice I’d been expecting all along.

“Impressive, Mr. Morgan,” Raymond Chalmont said. “But it will do you no good.”

I turned to see the Frenchman standing on the terrace, pointing a machine pistol at me through the open doors.