Chapter 4 - The Wolves at the Door
"Who is out there, Harrison?" Grant demanded, rising smoothly to his feet, towering over his security chief with an expression of pure, cold fury.
"We don't know, sir," Harrison muttered, unholstering a sidearm with practiced precision. "Could be local loan sharks. Could be the syndicates tracking the property deeds Olivia held. Either way, they knew where we were going before we even arrived."
Grant looked down at the floor. In the center of the room, June was clutching the triplets tightly, rocking them as the babies wailed against the rising tension. Harper was clinging to the hem of Grant’s coat, her small fingers gripping the wool like a lifeline.
"Get them into the safe transport," Grant ordered, his voice brooking zero argument. "Harrison, take the rear exit through the boiler room. Put them in the second Maybach. If a single soul so much as breathes on my children, you put them down."
"Sir, what about you?" Harrison asked, his eyes wide.
"I'm going to greet our guests," Grant said softly, pulling a heavy, custom-morgue-steel crowbar off a maintenance rack near the door. A terrifying, predatory smile played across his lips. "It’s time Calloway Global taught these scavengers a lesson about trespassing."
Before Harrison could protest, heavy boots pounded down the exterior stairs. The remaining wooden doorframe blew inward in a cloud of dust and splintered timber.
Three burly men stepped into the dim basement light. They weren't common street thugs; they wore tactical urban gear, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas, and each carried suppressed submachine guns.
"Well, well, well," the lead mercenary sneered, stepping into the room with a cold, metallic glint in his eyes. "The great Grant Calloway. Playing the hero in a freezing shithole. The boss sends his regards. Hand over the girl and the kids. The estate documents are tied to their names, and my employers prefer clean title transfers."
Grant didn't flinch. He slowly stepped forward, placing himself directly between the armed mercenaries and the corner where his children huddled.
"Who is your employer?" Grant asked smoothly, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic register as he covertly sidestepped toward a heavy industrial steam valve on the wall.
"Dead men don't need names, Calloway," the mercenary laughed, raising his weapon. "Drop your—"
Hiss-s-s-s!
With a sudden, violent wrench, Grant spun the industrial steam valve a full three rotations. A deafening roar filled the basement as superheated high-pressure steam blasted out of a ruptured overhead pipe, instantly turning the corridor into a blinding, scorching white fog of scalding vapor.
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The mercenaries screamed in agony as the scalding mist hit their exposed skin, dropping their weapons as they stumbled blindly into the concrete walls.
Grant didn't hesitate. He lunged forward through the steam, bringing the heavy iron crowbar down with the force of a man avenging an empire.
