Chapter 6 - Siege at the Safehouse
Before our ten-minute preparation window could close, the alarm panels across the penthouse flashed a blinding crimson.
Warning: Perimeter Breach. Sector 4: North Elevator.
"Ambush!" Marcus roared, drawing his sidearm and kicking open the armory locker. "Falcone tracked our signal!"
Heavy kinetic thuds echoed against the reinforced steel elevator doors at the end of the private hallway. Someone was using military-grade breaching charges.
"Get Emily into the panic room behind the master study, now!" I ordered two of my elite guards, who immediately scooped the little girl up and rushed her down the corridor.
I stepped up beside Marcus, racking the slide of my customized assault rifle. "Let's remind these bastards whose city this really is."
The elevator doors blew inward in a deafening flash of white-hot plasma and flying shrapnel. Smoke choked the hallway as a dozen heavily armored mercenaries in black tactical gear swarmed through the breach, firing suppressed submachine guns.
Bullets chewed through the drywalls and shattered crystal vases, sending a rain of glass across the Italian marble floor.
"Suppressing fire!" Marcus yelled, unleashing a wall of lead that dropped the first two attackers instantly.
I leaned out from behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with cold, calculated precision. Every shot found its mark. But more kept coming. Falcone had thrown his entire private army into this final assault, desperate to eliminate me before I reached the docks.
The firefight was brutal, echoing through the luxury penthouse as antique furniture and priceless artwork were reduced to splintered debris. Step by step, we forced them back toward the blown-out elevator shaft, utilizing crossfires and tactical grenade placements.
Within ten minutes, the hallway fell eerily silent, save for the crackle of burning drywall and the groans of wounded mercenaries lying among the wreckage. Over twenty elite hitmen littered the floor.
Marcus walked over to the twitching hand of a mercenary captain, kicking a smoking assault rifle away, and lifted a tactical radio off the man's chest.
A distorted voice was broadcasting through the comms speaker: "Status? Report! Did you wipe Ross?"
I snatched the radio from Marcus’s hand, pressing the transmission button.
"Your men are dead, Falcone," I growled into the mic. "And I'm coming for you."
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Falcone's chilling laugh crackled through the tiny speaker. "Come ahead, Sebastian. But you better hurry. The container ship leaves Pier 42 in twenty minutes. And your precious son is already locked inside container 88-B. If you're late... he goes to the bottom of Lake Michigan."
The transmission cut out.
