THE LAST DAY OF MERCY

CH 8

"Let. Her. Go."

Three words. Subzero temperature. Lucas's voice didn't rise, didn't waver, just dropped to a register that made the air itself feel colder.

The crowd erupted. Five hundred people laughing so hard some doubled over, their mockery echoing off the mansion walls like thunder.

"Oh my God!" Victoria clutched her stomach. "Listen to him! The servant thinks he can even give orders now!"

"Should we make him bark?" Vivian's voice cut through the laughter. "Like a good little dog? Bark three times, Lucas, and maybe we'll let your girlfriend go!"

The chant started instantly. "BARK! BARK! BARK!" Five hundred voices unified in cruelty, phones capturing every second for their millions of online viewers.

Sophie was crying, the guards' fingers digging into her arms hard enough to leave marks. Lucas saw the bruises forming, saw her wince with pain, saw genuine terror in her eyes.

Derek stepped forward, riding the crowd's energy like a wave. "I'll make you bark, you worthless piece of—"

His hand shot out, grabbed Lucas by the throat.

Lucas's hand moved.

It happened faster than thought—one second Derek was squeezing, the next Lucas's fingers wrapped around Derek's wrist like a steel trap. Derek's eyes went wide. He tried to pull back.

The crack was audible even over the crowd noise.

Derek's scream cut through the laughter like a knife through paper. He dropped to his knees, his wrist bent at an angle wrists weren't meant to bend, bones visibly shattered beneath the skin.

The ballroom went silent. Absolute. Total. Silence.

Five hundred people stared at the delivery boy who'd just broken a man's wrist with one hand like it was nothing. The weak servant. The beaten dog. Moving with speed and precision that spoke of training, violence, control.

Lucas released Derek's wrist. Let him collapse, whimpering, cradling his ruined hand.

When Lucas raised his eyes, they weren't human anymore. Cold. Dead. Predatory. The kind of eyes that had seen things, done things, ended things. Several guests actually stepped back, their bodies recognizing a threat their minds couldn't process.

He pulled out his phone. Not the cheap burner he used for deliveries. A sleek black device that looked military-grade. Dialed. Put it to his ear. Said nothing. Just stared at Derek writhing on the floor.

"Security!" Victoria's voice cracked with panic. "SECURITY! He attacked Derek! Arrest him NOW!"

Ten guards rushed the stage from different positions, trained professionals converging on one man.

Lucas didn't move. Didn't even blink.

The ground started to vibrate.

Champagne glasses rattled on tables. Ice tinkled in drinks. The chandelier swayed. People looked around, confused, some checking their phones thinking it was an earthquake alert.

Then they heard the helicopters.

The sound started distant but grew fast—military rotors, multiple aircraft, approaching from every direction. Searchlights blazed through the windows, harsh white light flooding the mansion grounds, turning night into day.

"What the hell is that?" someone whispered.

The power died. Every light in the mansion cut out simultaneously. The music stopped mid-note. Emergency lighting flickered on, casting everything in dim red glow that made the ballroom look like a warzone.

"The generators—" Vivian started.

They didn't kick in. Someone had disabled them.

Every window in the ballroom exploded.

Not randomly. Simultaneously. Controlled detonations that sent glass spraying inward in perfect patterns, missing the crowd by inches—close enough to terrify, precise enough not to injure. Screaming erupted. People dropped to the floor. Covered their heads.

Smoke grenades followed, hissing as they hit marble, flooding the room with tactical fog. Red laser sights cut through the haze, dozens of them, hundreds, painting every person in the room like targets in a shooting gallery.

The ten security guards rushing Lucas dropped. Not shot—tranquilized. They hit the floor unconscious within three seconds, dropped by threats they never saw coming.

"Jesus Christ—" someone choked out through the smoke.

The front doors exploded open. The back doors. The side entrances. Every access point breached simultaneously with military precision. Black-clad operatives poured through like a flood, forty of them, maybe fifty, faces covered, weapons ready, moving with the kind of coordination that spoke of special forces training.

They formed a perimeter around the stage in seconds, laser sights never wavering, each operative covering specific sectors with professional efficiency.

The crowd pressed together, five hundred of the city's elite reduced to terrified civilians realizing they were completely outmatched.

Through the smoke, through the chaos, through the red emergency lights and the laser sights and the tactical operatives, a man walked into the ballroom.

He wore a suit that probably cost fifty thousand dollars. His shoes alone could buy a car. He moved through the operatives and they parted for him like water around a stone, automatic deference, ingrained hierarchy.

Dustin Steele crossed the ballroom like he owned it. Glass crunched under his Italian leather shoes. Smoke swirled around him. He walked straight to the stage, past the unconscious guards, past Derek still whimpering on the floor, past Victoria frozen with her mouth open.

He stopped in front of Lucas and dropped to one knee.

The ballroom held its breath.

"Apologies for the delay, master." Dustin's voice carried in the sudden silence, crisp and professional.