The Forgotten Hilton

Chapter Three – The Masked Voice

The shards of the shattered chandelier still crunched beneath Marcus’s shoes as the hall fell into uneasy silence.

Charles steadied his weapon, his stance taut, his eyes fixed on the dark west corridor.

The flickering lights painted the hall in bursts of shadow and gold.

“Show yourself,” Charles barked, his voice like thunder.

A laugh answered, a warped, metallic rasp, as if filtered through a broken speaker.

“Oh, Charles. Still playing watchdog for the Hiltons. Loyal to the grave, aren’t you?”

Marcus felt the words slice straight through him. Whoever it was knew his uncle.

Charles’s jaw tightened. “Coward. You think a voice modulator will hide you from me? Step out, if you dare.”

A pause. Then the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

From the shadows emerged a figure clad in black tactical gear, a mask covering their face, the voice box at the throat glowing faintly.

Around them, three more masked figures flanked the walls, weapons trained and gleaming.

Marcus’s breath caught. Another wave? Already?

Charles lifted his pistol higher. “You won’t touch him.”

The lead figure cocked their head, studying Marcus with chilling stillness.

“So this is the bastard heir, Thrown out by his wife, crawling in gutters, and now paraded as the last Hilton hope. How poetic.”

Marcus froze. The shame of Sophia’s laughter, the humiliation of that stage, it all came crashing back. How did they know?

Charles stepped forward, shielding him. “You’ll say no more.”

But Marcus pushed past, his voice cracking but firm. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

The masked figure’s laughter rasped again.

“You? Nothing. You’re a pawn, Marcus Hilton. A puppet dangling on strings too thick for you to cut.”

Marcus clenched his fists. “Then why are you here?”

“To deliver a message.” The figure’s tone shifted, colder now.

“You don’t belong in this house. You don’t belong to this name. Leave now, or you’ll leave in a coffin.”

The words struck like a blade, Charles aimed, finger tightening on the trigger.

“You’ve made your threat. You won’t walk out alive.”

But the lead intruder lifted a gloved hand, and instantly, the other three leveled their rifles at Charles and Marcus.

The hall froze in a deadlock, tension thick enough to choke on.

Marcus’s heart pounded. One twitch, one wrong move, and blood would soak the marble again.

The voice rasped softly, almost intimate.

“Do you hear it, Marcus? The silence before the storm? This is your inheritance. Not wealth. Not power. Just death, dressed in silk.”

Marcus’s throat tightened. He wanted to deny it, to shout them down, but deep inside, he knew they weren’t wrong.

He had nothing but scraps before tonight, and now, this. Blood, betrayal, death circling like vultures.

His silence seemed to amuse the intruder. “Ah. Already speechless. Maybe Evelyn was right.”

Marcus blinked. Evelyn?

Charles’s eyes flared. “Enough.” His voice dropped to a growl. “You’ve revealed too much.”

Before Marcus could react, Charles fired.

The bullet grazed the lead intruder’s mask, sparking against the metal.

Chaos erupted instantly. Gunfire thundered through the hall, glass and plaster raining down.

Marcus dove behind the column, ears ringing. His chest heaved as bullets shredded the space where he’d just been standing.

Charles moved like a man possessed, his shots precise, forcing the intruders back.

But there were too many, their formation disciplined, their weapons brutal.

Marcus’s mind screamed at him to stay down, to wait it out.

Then he saw it, one of the intruders breaking off, circling wide, rifle angled directly at him.

“No!” Marcus shouted, scrambling for cover.

The gun roared, and Charles slammed into him, shoving him down.

The bullet tore through Charles’s shoulder instead, blood splattering across the marble.

“Uncle!” Marcus cried, catching him as he staggered.

Charles’s teeth clenched, but his grip on the pistol never wavered. “Stay low!”

Panic and fury surged in Marcus’s chest.

He watched blood seep through Charles’s suit, watched his uncle fight on, unrelenting. Something inside him snapped.

He couldn’t just cower. Not again. Not while Charles bled for him.

Marcus’s eyes darted to the body of one of the fallen intruders from earlier.

The man’s weapon, a compact submachine gun, lay just inches away. His breath hitched. Could I?

Bullets screamed overhead. Charles groaned beside him, barely holding steady.

Marcus lunged. His fingers closed around the cold steel. The weight of it jolted through him like a shock.

He turned, hands trembling but steadying with each second.

The lead intruder laughed again, even over the roar of battle. “Look at that. The bastard dog picks up a gun.”

Marcus’s jaw locked. His voice was raw, but it carried. “Say it again.”

The intruder tilted their head, amused. “Bastard. Dog. Pawn.”

Something ignited inside Marcus. A fire that humiliation had sparked, but rage now fanned into an inferno.

He raised the gun. His finger hovered on the trigger, and for the first time, Marcus Hilton aimed back.

Marcus’s finger quivered on the trigger.

His whole body screamed against it, memories of quiet nights, of humiliation, of swallowing every insult to survive.

He had never held power in his hands. Not like this, but then he saw Charles, bleeding, still firing, refusing to fall.

He saw the intruder raising their rifle toward him again, and something inside him broke, Marcus squeezed.

The gun bucked violently, the sound exploding in his ears.

For a heartbeat he thought he’d missed, then the intruder jerked backward, collapsing against the marble, blood spreading like ink across water.

The hall froze. Marcus’s breath hitched, his chest pounding so hard it hurt.

He stared at the lifeless body, his hands trembling but unwilling to let go of the weapon.

He had done it. He had fired. He had killed.

The lead intruder’s metallic laughter rasped over the silence. “Well, well… the bastard learns fast.”

Rage surged through Marcus. He raised the gun again, his voice raw. “Keep talking. See if you’re the next one.”

For the first time, the intruder tilted their head, not in amusement, but in interest.

“There it is. The blood in your veins. Perhaps you are a Hilton after all.”

The words stoked something fierce in Marcus, but he had no time to answer. Gunfire erupted again, shattering the moment.

Charles barked orders, his voice strained through pain. “Move! Flank left!”

Marcus stumbled into motion, his instincts clashing with adrenaline.

He ducked low, firing blindly at the intruders pressing forward.

The gun kicked in his hands, the sound deafening, but each bullet was a scream of defiance.

Another masked man fell, clutching his throat. Marcus gasped, half in horror, half in disbelief.

I did that, but hesitation nearly killed him. A third intruder swung his rifle toward Marcus.

Crack! Charles’s pistol spat fire, and the man dropped before he could shoot.

Charles groaned, his shoulder bleeding heavily, but his eyes never left Marcus.

“Don’t freeze!” he shouted. “Every second you hesitate, you give them the kill!”

Marcus’s teeth clenched. His fear hadn’t left, but now it burned beside fury.

He forced himself forward, sliding behind a toppled column fragment.

His breaths came ragged, but his grip on the weapon steadied.