Chapter 7 - TACTICAL RETALIATION
I stood up from behind the kitchen island and fired four rapid rounds through the shattered bay window.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
One of the men outside, tactical gear visible through the garden bushes, let out a sharp grunt as a 9mm hollow-point caught him in the shoulder. He collapsed backward into the hydrangeas.
"HE'S IN THE KITCHEN!" a voice screamed from the lawn. "SUPPRESSING FIRE!"
A storm of lead tore through the exterior walls. Plaster exploded in blinding white clouds. Glass cabinets shattered, sending hundreds of crystal wine glasses crashing down in a deadly avalanche.
Clara moved. Staying low, she scooped Sophie up into her arms, ignoring the searing pain in her wounded shoulder, and sprinted through the rear service doorway toward the hidden back staircase.
I backed out of the kitchen in the opposite direction, firing controlled two-round bursts toward the garden path to keep the shooters' heads down. Every shot was calculated to make them believe I was defending the main foyer—to make them think I was alone and panicked.
I retreated into the grand foyer, where the massive crystal chandelier hung above the double-curved staircase.
The heavy front double doors were suddenly kicked inward with a resounding CRACK. Two men in dark tactical fatigues, holding short-barreled carbines, swept into the entryway. They were professionals—ex-military contractors hired by Lionel Voss to do clean-up work.
"VOSS SENDS HIS REGARDS, WHITAKER!" one of them yelled, raising his rifle.
He didn't know that fifteen years ago, before I owned port terminals and construction firms, I had cleared houses in Fallujah with the 1st Marine Division.
I didn't try to trade shots in the open foyer. I stepped behind the heavy marble pillar supporting the second-floor balcony. As the first shooter advanced, his boots crunching on glass, I swung around the left side of the pillar, low to the ground.
THUMP-THUMP.
Two rounds caught him right under the bottom edge of his tactical vest. He dropped like a sack of wet cement.
The second shooter pivoted, his carbine spitting fire.
RAT-AT-AT-AT!
Marble chips sprayed into my face, cutting my cheek. I ducked back behind the pillar, pulled a flashbang grenade from my tactical belt—a piece of home security hardware I kept hidden in my study desk—pulled the pin with my teeth, and tossed it over the top of the marble column.
The grenade bounced off the hardwood floor, coming to rest right between the mercenary's boots.
BANG-FLASH!
A blinding white light and a deafening 170-decibel shockwave erupted through the grand foyer.
The shooter let out a agonized scream, dropping his rifle to cover his shattered eardrums and blinded eyes. I stepped out from behind the pillar, raised my sidearm, and neutralized the threat with a single, precise shot.
Silence descended on the foyer, heavy and thick with the smell of cordite, ozone, and copper.
My ears were ringing with a sharp, high-pitched whine. I reloaded my sidearm, dropping the empty magazine onto the floor, and looked up toward the second-floor balcony.
A voice cut through the quiet, coming from the upper hallway near the girls' bedrooms.
"ETHAN!"
It wasn't a contractor. It was a voice I recognized instantly. A voice I had sat across from at executive board meetings for a decade.
Lionel Voss stepped out onto the second-floor balcony. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, carrying a heavy-barreled suppressed pistol. Beside him, holding a tactical shotgun, was his head of security—a massive, scarred man known only as Miller.
May you like
Voss looked down at the bodies in my foyer, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than shock.
"You always were a violent bastard, Ethan," Voss said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "I thought two years of playing grieving widower and soft corporate CEO would have dulled your edge. I see I was mistaken."
