Chapter 6 - THE AMBUSH IN THE CUL-DE-SACThe first shot didn't come with a loud, echoing bang—it came with a subtle, muffled thip of a high-end titanium suppressor mounted on a precision rifle barrel.
The bullet struck the gravel driveway a mere two inches from Isaac’s right boot, kicking up a sharp spray of white stones and dust.
Isaac didn't flinch. He didn't drop to the dirt. Instead, he pivoted smoothly on his heel, using the momentum to trace the trajectory back to its source: the second-story window of an abandoned colonial-style house directly across the street.
Window. Second floor. Left corner. Wind speed zero point five knots eastward, Isaac calculated internally in a fraction of a second.
A second sniper round whistled past his left ear, clipping the collar of his tactical jacket.
"sloppy," Isaac muttered to himself.
Instead of taking cover, Isaac broke into a sudden, explosive sprint—not backward toward safety, but straight across the open street toward the target building. His speed was terrifying, moving with the practiced agility of a veteran operator who knew how to turn an enemy's kill zone into a tactical trap.
As he reached the front porch of the abandoned house, a door on the ground floor burst open. Two masked operatives clad in matte-black tactical gear charged out, their assault rifles raised, shouting rapid commands in a foreign tongue.
"Clear the threshold!" one shouted.
They expected a panicked civilian or a cornered target begging for mercy.
Instead, they ran straight into a hurricane.
Isaac didn't draw his firearm. As the lead operator lunged forward with his rifle barrel elevated, Isaac ducked underneath the muzzle, caught the man by his tactical vest, and used his own forward momentum to fling him violently over the porch railing. The operative crashed headfirst into a stack of metal garbage cans with a sickening thud.
The second operative swung his rifle around to fire, but Isaac was already inside his guard. With a lightning-fast palm strike to the man's throat followed by a brutal sweep of his leg, Isaac dropped the second attacker to the floor, disarmed him of his rifle in one fluid motion, and pinned him with a heavy boot against his chest.
"Who sent you?" Isaac demanded, pressing the barrel of the captured rifle gently beneath the man's chin.
The masked operative stared up at Isaac through his tactical visor, a cruel, bloodied smile stretching across his lips.
"You're too late, Colonel," the man rasped through a choked breath. "Protocol Zero isn't an extraction... it's a sterilization."
Before Isaac could press further, a piercing, high-pitched electronic whine began to emanate from a small, heavy-duty metal briefcase strapped to the operative's chest rig.
A timer display flickered to life in glowing red digital numbers.
May you like
00:05... 00:04... 00:03...
Isaac's eyes widened. It wasn't an assassination squad. It was a suicide demolition team designed to turn the entire residential block into a crater, erasing every shred of evidence linking the Vanguard Consortium to Gary Baxter, Makayla, and the fraudulent property scheme.
