747 "Beneath the Bleeding Skyline: How a Stolen Ledger, a Betrayed Brother, and a Dying Vow Triggered the Ultimate War for Mercer’s Empire"

The heavy steel elevator doors groaned as the hydraulic charge locked onto the outer frame, vibrating through the mahogany floors of the penthouse like a warning tremor before an earthquake.

“Luke, they’re going to blow the doors!” Julian shrieked, scrambling backward on his hands and knees until his spine slammed hard against the wet bar. His expensive suit was torn, his face smeared with drywall dust and dried blood, his eyes wide with a pathetic, animal panic. “Do something! You’re Luke Mercer! You run this city! Shoot the lock—blow the panel!”

I didn't waste breath on him. I kept my Glock raised, my feet planted shoulder-width apart, my eyes locked on the shimmering brass doors at the end of the long, vaulted hallway. Marco’s silence over the intercom still echoed in my ears—a hollow, ringing void that tasted like iron and impending grief. If Marco was down, the first line of defense protecting both me and the woman lying helpless in a hospital bed across Manhattan had just been shattered.

Boom.

The explosive charge went off with a concussive roar that blew the double elevator doors completely off their tracks. They spun through the air like loose leaves before crashing into the glass display cases, shattering crystal and mahogany into a million glittering shards. A thick wall of gray smoke billowed into the penthouse, smelling of cordite, hot metal, and burning insulation.

Through the haze, three dark silhouettes stepped over the twisted wreckage of the elevator shaft. They moved with terrifying synchronization, wearing matte-black tactical gear, reinforced ceramic plate carriers, and night-vision goggles flipped up over their helmets. They carried suppressed short-barreled carbines held at the high-ready.

“Target confirmed in the primary suite,” the lead operative barked into his shoulder comm, his voice distorted and metallic through a comms filter. “Suppress and secure the brother. The primary target must be taken alive for the broker’s ledger.”

Before the first operative could raise his barrel to shoulder level, I squeezed the trigger twice.

Bang! Bang!

The muzzle flash cut through the smoke like lightning. The lead operative’s helmet snapped backward under the impact of the hollow-point rounds, his body dropping heavily to the Persian rug before he could fire a single shot.

The two remaining shooters didn't panic. They immediately split, diving behind the overturned leather sofas as a storm of suppressed return fire chewed up the wall panels inches above my head, raining plaster dust down onto my shoulders.

“Cover!” I shouted, rolling hard across the floor behind the massive mahogany wet bar right as Julian let out a high-pitched scream of terror.

A stream of bullets tore through the bottles of vintage scotch behind us, sending amber glass and liquor cascading down over Julian’s head like a sticky, foul-smelling waterfall.

“They’re going to kill us!” Julian sobbed, curling into a tight fetal position with his hands clamped over his ears. “Luke, please! Do something!”

I checked my magazine. Seven rounds left. Against two professional tier-one operators with body armor and thermal optics, seven rounds wasn't a fight—it was a delayed execution. Unless I used their tactical discipline against them.

“You wanted to be a Mercer, Julian?” I whispered coldly, pulling a heavy crystal decanter off the counter with my left hand while keeping the Glock steady in my right. “Then act like one and run for the emergency stairwell the second I break their line.”

Without waiting for his answer, I hurled the crystal decanter across the room toward the far glass windows. It smashed against the pane with a loud, echoing crash.

Both operatives instantly swung their rifles toward the sound, their training locking onto the auditory distraction.