The heavy hydraulic seal of the bunker door engaged with a sound like a guillotine dropping.
The absolute, deafening roar of automatic gunfire, the concussive blasts of the automatic shotgun, and the splintering of concrete were cut off instantly. The silence that rushed in to replace the violence was thick, heavy, and immediate, broken only by the ragged, synchronized gasps of three people bleeding in the dark.
They were inside the safe house's subterranean panic room—a six-by-nine concrete and reinforced steel vault hidden directly beneath the foundation of the estate. The room was bathed in the dim, amber glow of a single low-voltage emergency LED bar mounted on the low ceiling. It smelled of cold iron, dust, and the unmistakable, metallic tang of fresh blood.
Lorenzo didn’t even mak
