Chapter 4 - THE SIEGE OF TRIBECAThe glass doors of the private elevator blew inward with a deafening blast that shattered the custom mahogany trim into a million razor-sharp splinters.
A wall of thick, acrid white smoke poured into the gallery hall, obscuring the ceiling lights.
"Get down!" Marco roared, tackling me to the floor behind the heavy marble-topped coffee table just as a hail of automatic gunfire chewed through the drywall above our heads. Wood splinters rained down on us like a lethal snowstorm.
Through the haze of smoke, heavy tactical boots crunched against the shattered glass. Four figures clad in unmarked matte-black tactical gear, wearing thermal-imaging helmets and carrying suppressed short-barrel carbines, moved with chilling, military-grade synchronization.
They weren't common street thugs. They were professional contract killers—clean, precise, and executing a textbook room-clearing sweep.
"Marco!" I yelled over the deafening chatter of return fire as Marco pulled his Glock and laid down suppressive fire toward the hallway entrance, forcing the lead operative to duck behind a marble pillar.
"They bypassed the biometric locks!" Marco shouted back, reloading with practiced fluidity. "Someone inside the building gave them the master override codes!"
I glanced back toward the study. Arthur Mercer was nowhere to be seen. The old bastard had vanished through the hidden panic-room panel behind the bookshelf the second the first explosive charge went off, leaving us to bleed out as a distraction.
Typical. Arthur had sacrificed everyone and everything his entire life to protect the Mercer name, and tonight, he was sacrificing his own son without a second thought.
"We can't hold this position!" I yelled, grabbing a heavy brass floor lamp and hurling it down the hallway to create a distraction. "The panic room in the master suite! Move!"
We scrambled low to the ground, diving behind the curved velvet sofa as a burst of high-caliber rounds shredded the cushions inches from my shoulder. The heat of the gunfire was suffocating.
We reached the master suite and slammed the reinforced steel door shut, engaging the manual hydraulic deadbolt just as the first tactical operative slammed his shoulder against the exterior. The steel groaned under the impact, but held.
"Code override for the private armory," I panted, slamming my palm against the biometric scanner beside the walk-in closet.
Beep. Access Granted.
The hidden wall panel slid open, revealing an array of heavy tactical gear, tactical shotguns, and customized assault rifles—the arsenal I maintained for private security details.
I grabbed a customized Benelli M4 tactical shotgun and tossed a submachine gun to Marco.
"They want a war in my house?" I muttered, racking a shell into the chamber with a sharp, metallic chack-chack. "I’ll give them a slaughter."
Before Marco could answer, the bedroom window facing the private balcony imploded inward. A concussion grenade rolled across the carpet, hissing violently, emitting blinding white light and a high-pitched sonic shriek that dropped us both to our knees, ears ringing and vision blurred.
Through the smoke and ringing ears, a shadow leaped over the shattered balcony railing.
A tall, athletic figure dressed in black tactical gear, holding a combat knife in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Marco tried to raise his weapon, but the intruder moved with unnatural speed, kicking the gun from Marco’s hand and sending him crashing backward into the glass display case.
I raised the shotgun, leveling the barrel directly at the intruder’s chest.
"Drop the knife," I roared through the rushing sound in my ears.
The intruder froze. Slowly, with deliberate slowness, the tactical helmet was unlatched and lifted off.
A cascade of long, damp dark hair tumbled down the shoulders of the tactical vest.
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It wasn't a Russian hitman.
It was Dr. Avery Bennett.
