Page 69 of Sanctuary

“I think so,” Declan grimaced, testing his legs as Kat and Rory helped him to his feet. He swayed dangerously before finding his balance. “The book—”

“Forget the damn book,” I snapped, throwing his arm over my shoulder to support him. “We need to get out of here before the whole place comes down.”

Another explosion rocked the building, closer this time. Plaster rained down from what remained of the ceiling as the structural integrity of the house continued to fail.

“We need to go. Now,” Rory urged, already moving toward the door with Kat at his side.

We staggered through the burning house, the heat growing unbearable as flames consumed everything in their path. Generations of MacGallan history brought over when they came from Ireland—paintings, antiques, memories—reduced to ash in minutes. But none of that mattered if we couldn’t get out alive.

“The east exit,” I reminded them, directing our small group toward the kitchen. “Mia’s getting Wren from the panic room. They’ll meet us there.”

We reached the kitchen to find it largely intact, though smoke poured through the vents. The exit was just ahead—a service door that led to the gardens. Freedom was tantalizingly close.

“Go,” I urged, helping Declan toward the door as Rory moved ahead to secure our escape route.

Just as Rory reached for the handle, the door burst inward. Two of Matheson’s operatives stood there, weapons raised. Caught by surprise, Rory barely had time to react before the first shots rang out.

I watched in horror as he staggered backward, crimson blooming across his chest. Kat screamed, lunging forward to catch him as he collapsed. The operatives swung their weapons toward us, and I knew we had nowhere to run, no cover to take.

Three shots cracked through the air in rapid succession—precise, deadly. Both operatives dropped without firing another round, small, neat holes appearing in their foreheads. I turned to see Mia in the doorway behind us, her pistol still raised, expression coldly professional.

“Wren?” I asked immediately.

“Here,” she appeared behind Mia, her face pale but determined. She rushed past us to where Kat cradled Rory’s still form.

“Oh my God, Rory!” Wren muttered, dropping to her knees beside him.

I lowered Declan to the floor, where he crawled toward his friend despite his own injuries. “Rory, stay with us,” he commanded, pressing his hands against the wounds.

Rory’s eyes fluttered, finding Declan’s face. “Did we get them?” he asked, his voice weak, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

“We got them,” Declan assured him, his own voice breaking. “Matheson?”

“Dead,” Mia confirmed, moving to check the exit. “But we need to move. The house is becoming structurally unsound.”

As if to emphasize her point, a thunderous crack sounded from above as section of the ceiling gave way. Flames licked hungrily at the exposed beams.

“Can we move him?” Kat asked, looking desperately between us.

Mia knelt beside Rory, her expression grim as she assessed his wounds. Her eyes met Kat’s, and something unspoken passed between them—a shared understanding of the gravity of his injuries.

“We have to try,” Mia said finally, her voice gentle but firm. “Staying means certain death for all of us.”

Kat nodded, wiping tears from her soot-streaked face. “I’ll take his shoulders. Connor, his legs.”

Together, we lifted Rory as carefully as possible, his body alarmingly limp in our grip. He groaned once, then fell silent, his head lolling against Kat’s arm.

“Mia, take point,” I instructed. “Wren, help Declan.”

We moved through the doorway into the relative safety of the garden. The night air, though thick with smoke, felt blessedly cool after the inferno inside. We staggered across the lawn, putting distance between ourselves and the burning mansion. Behind us, flames consumed the place that had been home, casting an apocalyptic glow across the estate grounds.

“Here,” Mia directed, indicating a flat area near the rose garden. “Set him down gently.”

We lowered Rory to the grass, where Kat immediately resumed pressure on his wounds, murmuring reassurances that sounded more like prayers. Wren helped Declan sit nearby, his face contorted with pain that seemed more emotional than physical as he watched his friend’s life slipping away.

“The ambulance,” Wren said suddenly, fumbling for her phone. “I called them when the first explosions happened. They should be—”

In the distance, sirens wailed, drawing closer. Help was coming, but as I looked at Rory’s ashen face, I feared it might be too late.

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