Chapter 8 - THE SHADOW IN THE REARVIEW
The grand foyer of the Moretti estate was a slaughterhouse of marble and shattered glass. Smoke from stun grenades hung thick in the air, illuminated by the cold green beams of tactical lasers sweeping across the sweeping dual staircases.
Six mercenaries in matte-black ceramic armor moved in a diamond formation, their suppressed carbines coughing in rhythmic, deadly bursts as they cleared the ground-floor parlors.
“Target one: Salvatore Moretti. Target two: Luca Moretti,” the strike team leader barked over his tactical headset. “Zero survivors. Set thermite charges in the central library once confirmed.”
Above them, perched silently on the narrow ornamental balustrade overlooking the grand foyer, Gabriel Cross waited like an eagle waiting for wolves to enter a box canyon. He had cut the main power breakers; only the flickering emergency floor lights and the lightning flashes from outside provided visibility.
Gabriel raised a heavy copper fire nozzle he had detached from the antique standpipe on the mezzanine. With a silent exhalation, he hurled it downward into the center of the marble fountain.
The heavy splash echoed like a falling body.
Four laser beams instantly snapped toward the fountain. “Movement at nine o’clock! Suppress!”
As the mercenaries opened fire, riddling the marble statues with high-velocity lead, Gabriel dropped from the ceiling fifteen feet above the trailing guard. He landed squarely on the man's shoulders, the kinetic force driving the mercenary’s face into the hard tiles with a sickening crunch. Before the body could hit the floor, Gabriel stripped the man’s suppressed short-barrel rifle, rolled to the cover of a massive Corinthian pillar, and fired three controlled bursts into the exposed flanks of the remaining two rear guards.
They fell instantly, their armor offering zero protection against close-range armor-piercing rounds driven into the unarmored seams of their neck seals.
“Ambush! Mezzanine pillar!” the team leader screamed, spinning around with his heavy carbine.
Gabriel didn't stay behind the pillar. He was already sprinting through the service corridor, using his intimate knowledge of the mansion’s hidden architectural veins. He slipped through the concealed pantry entrance, navigated the pitch-black linen corridors, and emerged behind the secondary breach team entering through the conservatory.
For four agonizing minutes, Gabriel waged a solitary, asymmetric war in the shadows of the estate. He used the house’s grand scale against the invaders: leading them into narrow dead-ends where their superior numbers were useless, tripping hidden security shutters to sever their formations, and striking with the ruthless, surgical efficiency of a ghost.
By the time the gunfire ceased in the east wing, nine mercenaries lay incapacitated or dead among the antique rugs and shattered porcelain.
Gabriel leaned against the stone wall of the grand gallery, his breath coming in hot, shallow gasps. A jagged piece of shrapnel had torn through his left forearm, soaking his gray sleeve in dark blood, but his grip on his rifle remained unbreakable.
Suddenly, his tactical radio—looted from the strike leader—cracked to life.
A cultured, elderly voice echoed over the channel, cold and utterly devoid of panic: “Impressive work, Sergeant Cross. Victor spoke very highly of your military records before he was so rudely detained. But while you were playing commando in the hallways, my secondary unit breached the private marina docks.”
Gabriel’s blood ran cold. The marina docks. The underground tunnel from the basement vault led directly to the boathouse where Salvatore’s private yacht was moored.
“Don Salvatore was so predictable,” Julian Vance’s voice purred over the radio. “He always runs to the water when the land burns. I have the Don and his precious boy secured in the salon of the flagship. You have twelve minutes to walk down to the pier, Sergeant. If you don't… I will drop Luca into the harbor with forty pounds of anchor chain around his neck, just as I did to his mother thirty years ago.”
May you like
The transmission clicked dead.
Gabriel didn't hesitate. He dropped the empty carbine, pulled a fresh combat blade from his boot, reloaded his sidearm, and sprinted through the storm toward the black, churning waters of the Atlantic.
