Chapter 7 - NIGHT AT THE ESTATE"Julian!" Michael screamed, grabbing a loaded Sig Sauer 9mm handgun from his desk drawer.
Silence answered him.
Michael racked the slide of the gun, his heart beating in his throat. He ducked into the shadows near the office doorway, listening carefully.
Footsteps. Heavy, tactical boots moving with absolute precision across the marble foyer.
"Clear the East Wing," a cold voice ordered outside. "Find the children. The boss wants them alive as leverage. The father is expendable."
Michael’s blood ran hot with adrenaline. The grief and shock vanished, replaced by the primal instinct of a father protecting his blood.
He checked his gun's magazine—fifteen rounds.
He slipped out of the office into the pitch-black hallway, relying on his complete knowledge of his own home. He knew every squeaky floorboard, every shadowed alcove.
Two tactical operators in night-vision gear stepped past the library entrance.
Michael didn't hesitate. He stepped out behind them, firing three quick suppressed shots.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Both men collapsed instantly. Michael grabbed one of their dropped submachine guns, stripped their tactical gear for spare magazines, and sprinted toward the upstairs panic room where Julian was supposed to take the kids.
At the end of the second-floor corridor, he found Julian slumped against the wall, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his shoulder, but still holding his sidearm.
"Michael..." Julian gasped, clutching his wound. "They... cut the power... took out the perimeter guards..."
"Where are Ethan and Lily?" Michael asked, kneeling beside him.
"Inside the panic room," Julian choked out. "It’s sealed from the inside. They haven't breached it yet."
Before Michael could reply, a blinding light illuminated the top of the grand staircase.
A tall man in a bespoke gray suit stepped into view, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries holding assault rifles. The man had a deep scar running from his left ear down to his jaw line—the voice from the phone.
"Remarkable performance, Mr. Carter," the scarred man said, clapping his hands slowly. "You’re much more lethal than your financial reports suggested."
Michael raised his weapon, aiming directly at the man's chest. "Step away from that door or I put a bullet through your throat."
The man smiled calmly. "My name is Victor Vance. I am the Director of Acquisition for Obsidian. And you are holding something that belongs to us."
"You killed my wife," Michael snarled, his trigger finger trembling with rage.
"She was a thief who betrayed her country," Victor replied coldly. "She cost us billions. Now, give me the Black File, and I’ll leave you with your children. Refuse... and I blow that panic room door off its hinges with C4 and leave no witnesses."
Michael stood alone in the hallway, his gun pointed at five trained killers, his children locked behind a steel door ten feet away, and his dead wife’s secrets burning in his pocket.
He looked at Victor. Then he let out a low, breathless laugh.
"What's so funny, Mr. Carter?" Victor asked, frowning slightly.
"You think you caught me off guard, Victor," Michael said, dropping his gun to his side. "You think you're the hunter tonight."
Michael pulled a small remote detonator from his pocket.
"What is that?" Victor’s eyes narrowed.
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"When I bought this estate four years ago," Michael said softly, "I built a localized EMP and gas containment grid into the ceiling framing in case of a biological containment breach. It costs ten million dollars to install."
Michael hit the red button on the remote.
