Chapter 3 - Darkness and Deception
The sudden pitch-blackness was absolute. Outside, the harsh security floodlights died, plunging the sprawling gardens and courtyards into shadow.
“Power’s cut,” Marco hissed, reaching instantly for the Sig Sauer tucked into his waistband. “They tripped the main transformer at the north substation!”
Damon didn't flinch. He moved with the fluid, silent grace of a man who had memorized every square inch of the mansion long before the wealth and the syndicate arrived. He stepped away from the desk into the shelter of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, pulling his own weapon—a custom-plated Glock 19—from his shoulder holster.
“Stay low,” Damon whispered.
Through the tall, uncurtained windows of the library, a faint amber glow began to bleed across the gravel driveway. Headlights. Three black Escalades rolled through the smashed front security gates without stopping, their engines rumbling like approaching thunder.
The doors of the lead vehicle opened. Men stepped out—not local street thugs, but professional operators dressed in black tactical gear, carrying suppressed carbines with military precision.
“Damon,” Marco breathed, crouching behind a heavy leather sofa near the door. “There’s at least twelve of them. Maybe more. Our guards at the gate—they didn't even fire a shot.”
“Because they didn't have time,” Damon said coldly, his eyes tracking the dark silhouettes moving toward the front portico.
The heavy oak front doors of the mansion didn't need to be broken down. A small, shaped explosive charge was slapped against the deadbolt with terrifying efficiency.
Thud-hiss.
A muffled pop echoed through the foyer, followed by the heavy, groaning crash of the front doors blowing inward.
“Clear!” a harsh voice barked from the hallway.
Footsteps rushed across the marble floor of the foyer—boots moving with brutal, synchronized rhythm toward the library.
Damon checked his magazine in the dim light of the moon filtering through the windows. Seven rounds. He clicked the slide back into place, taking cover behind a marble pillar near the fireplace.
“Marco,” Damon called out in a low whisper. “When they breach the door, fall back to the panic room behind the bar. Buy me thirty seconds.”
“Damon, wait—”
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The library doors flew open. A flashbang grenade came rolling across the hardwood floor, spinning wildly, its metallic casing glinting in the dark.
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