Chapter 5 - Breach of the Estate
The front windows of the guest house exploded inward in a shower of jagged glass shards and splintered wood.
“GET DOWN!” Julian roared, lunging forward and tackling Arthur hard to the floor just as a hail of suppressed gunfire chewed through the drywall above their heads, sending chunks of plaster raining down like snow.
Shouts echoed from the front porch. Heavy tactical boots stamped across the shattered glass as professional mercenaries flooded the living room, their night-vision goggles casting an eerie green glow across the room in the dim light.
Julian scrambled behind the heavy oak kitchen island, his heart hammering against his ribs as he cocked the Sig Sauer. He didn't hesitate. He leaned around the corner of the counter and fired twice.
BANG! BANG!
The lead tactical operator dropped his weapon and fell backward, clutching his shoulder with a sharp groan of pain. The other two mercenaries immediately returned fire, chewing up the wooden island with a deafening rattle of automatic gunfire. Splinters flew everywhere, stinging Julian’s face and hands.
“You brought them here!” Julian yelled over the deafening noise, turning his glare toward Arthur, who was cowering flat against the kitchen floor with his hands over his head.
“I didn't call them!” Arthur shrieked in absolute terror. “They monitor my communications channel! The moment my diagnostic ping dropped offline, they knew the op was compromised!”
A heavy flashbang grenade clattered across the hardwood floor, sliding right to the base of the kitchen counter.
HISS.
“Flashbang!” Julian cursed, instantly slamming his eyes shut and covering his ears.
BOOM!
A blinding white flash illuminated the room like a miniature sun, accompanied by a concussive shockwave that robbed the air from Julian’s lungs and left a high-pitched, deafening ring in his ears. Before he could recover his equilibrium, two massive pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms, dragging him out from behind the counter and slamming him face-first onto the floor.
Cold steel cuffs snapped around his wrists with a sharp, brutal click.
As Julian blinked away the blinding spots dancing in his vision, a polished leather shoe stepped firmly onto the back of his neck, pinning him to the splintered floorboards.
Through the haze of smoke and ringing ears, Julian looked up toward the doorway.
A tall figure stepped out of the pouring rain into the ruined living room. The man wore an expensive black trench coat, his face partially obscured by the shadows of the porch overhang, but on his right hand gleamed a heavy, unmistakable gold signet ring bearing the crest of the international shipping syndicate that Julian had spent the last decade fighting off.
“Mr. Vance,” a smooth, cultured voice echoed through the room. “You really should have learned when to leave well enough alone.”
Arthur Sterling tried to crawl backward toward the back exit, but one of the tactical operators casually stepped on his ankle, pinning him to the floor.
“Please,” Arthur begged, looking up at the man in the trench coat. “I gave him nothing! I didn't tell him anything about the trust!”
The man in the trench coat looked down at Arthur with a gaze as cold and empty as deep space. He slowly pulled out a suppressed pistol from his coat pocket, leveled it down at Arthur’s head, and pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.
PFFT.
Arthur slumped sideways, lifeless, blood pooling rapidly across the wooden floor.
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Julian let out a raw, enraged roar, struggling violently against the handcuffs, but the tactical enforcers pressed their boots down harder, crushing his face against the debris.
“Take him,” the man in the trench coat ordered smoothly, turning his cold gaze down toward Julian. “And burn the guest house to the ground. Send a message to the rest of the estate: the Vance family circus is officially canceled.”
