Chapter 4 - Shadows in the East Wing
At four-thirty in the morning, the silent alarm system on the manor’s eastern perimeter fence pulsed a subtle vibration against my smartwatch.
I was standing in the master control room beneath the wine cellar, watching forty high-definition thermal monitors scan the sixty-acre grounds.
Sector Seven—the dense birch forest bordering the private beach—showed four distinct heat signatures moving in tactical formation.
The intruders wore thermal-baffling ghillie suits and carried suppressed automatic carbines with optical night vision.
“They are using military-grade radio jamming frequencies, Boss,” my chief of tactical security, Leo Rossi, reported from the console.
“They bypassed the outer motion sensors by cutting through the underwater drainage culverts near the jetty.”
I zoomed in on the lead operative’s tactical vest, catching the distinctive black-and-silver viper insignia stitched onto his collar.
It was the personal wet-work squad of Dominic Bellini.
Bellini’s street informants had spotted Elena entering my estate six weeks ago, but until tonight, he wasn't certain if she carried the sovereign flash drive.
The four-year-old child’s presence had confirmed his worst fears: Julian’s bloodline was alive, and the three-hundred-million-dollar trust was slipping from his claws.
“Do not engage them on the lawn, Leo,” I commanded coldly, racking the slide of my customized tactical sidearm.
“Let them breach the eastern glass conservatory.”
“I want them to step inside the house so they understand the difference between hunting a rabbit and walking into a dragon’s den.”
Leo smiled with lethal understanding, signaling our ten snipers stationed on the manor’s slate roof to hold their fire.
I took the private elevator up to the second-floor gallery overlooking the two-story glass conservatory.
Below, the French doors of the conservatory were pried open with a hydraulic spreader, the glass cracking with a muffled pop.
Four masked mercenaries slipped onto the flagstones, their red laser sights painting the marble statues and exotic palm trees.
The lead operative raised his hand, gesturing toward the private staircase leading to the family bedrooms.
“Looking for the little girl, gentlemen?” my voice boomed from the darkness above, echoing off the iron rafters like a crack of thunder.
The conservatory’s high-intensity security floodlights flared to life instantly, bathing the intruders in blinding, inescapable white light.
The four mercenaries scrambled to raise their weapons toward the mezzanine, but they were already ten seconds too late.
Six of my tactical operators stepped out from behind the limestone pillars with twelve-gauge combat shotguns, racking the slides in unison.
The deafening metallic clicks froze the mercenaries mid-stride, their laser sights trembling against the marble floor.
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“Drop the weapons, unmask yourselves, and kneel on the stone,” I commanded, leaning casually over the wrought-iron railing.
“Or my men will paint these orchids with your blood before you can blink.”
