Chapter 5 - THE BLACK SQUADRONThe roar of twin-engine rotors deafened the room, whipping the smoke and debris into a violent, blinding cyclone.
Before Viktor or Marcus could react, three figures clad entirely in matte-black tactical gear dropped silently through the hole in the ceiling, landing with cat-like precision in a semi-circle around us.
Their weapons weren't standard-issue submachine guns; they carried customized carbines fitted with biometric locks and red-dot sights aimed squarely at Viktor Vance’s chest.
"Drop your weapons! Federal Homeland Security! Hands on your head—now!" shouted the lead operative, a woman with a sharp, uncompromising voice that commanded absolute authority.
Viktor’s face instantly twisted from aristocratic amusement into absolute, furious disbelief. He slowly raised his hands, glaring at Grant. "You called federal agents? Have you lost your mind? That brings the whole house down on both of us!"
"Not federal agents, Viktor," Grant said coldly, his posture straightening as he leveled his own weapon back at his uncle. "My private asset protection unit. They answer to me, not Washington. And they've been recording every word of your confession for the last ten minutes."
Marcus panicked, lunging sideways toward his dropped rifle, but one of the tactical operatives didn't hesitate. A high-voltage taser dart hissed through the air, embedding itself directly into Marcus’s tactical vest.
With a violent convulsion, Marcus let out a choked gasp, his eyes rolling back as fifty thousand volts coursed through his body. He crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, twitching once before going entirely still.
Viktor didn't move. He stood frozen, his hands raised, his pale eyes darting toward the window, calculating escape routes that no longer existed.
"It's over, Uncle," Grant said, stepping forward until he stood toe-to-toe with the man who had terrorized his family for decades. "Your assets are frozen. Your men are captured. And you are going back to a concrete box—only this time, there won't be any way out."
Viktor let out a dry, chilling laugh. "You think you've won, Grant? You think arresting me stops the board? The syndicate runs deeper than you can possibly imagine. They won't stop hunting Noah. They won't stop hunting her."
He turned his cold gaze directly toward me.
"He brought you into the crosshairs, my dear," Viktor whispered maliciously. "Even if he locks me away, you will never be safe. You are tied to the Holloway bloodline now. In our world, that’s a death sentence."
"Take him away," Grant barked, his voice cracking with suppressed rage.
Two of the operatives grabbed Viktor by the arms, slapping heavy titanium cuffs onto his wrists and dragging him backward toward the extraction rope hanging from the helicopter outside.
As Viktor was hauled into the roaring night air, his final manic laugh echoed over the sound of the rotors.
And then, silence slowly returned to the burned-out cabin.
The smoke began to clear. The red emergency lights flickered back on.
Grant stood alone in the center of the ruined bedroom, his shoulders heavy, looking older and more exhausted than I had ever seen him.
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Slowly, he turned around to face me.
I stood with my back pressed against the safe room door, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, glaring at him with a mixture of fury, heartbreak, and profound exhaustion.
