Chapter 7 - THE WOLF IN THE FOYERInside the grand dining hall—the very place where Vanessa had slapped Claire just days earlier—heavy tactical boots crunched over shattered crystal and expensive china.
Sal, the gold-toothed enforcer for the O'Malley crew, stepped through the smoking ruins of the front entrance, holding an assault rifle across his chest. Behind him, twelve mercenaries in black tactical gear fanned out across the marble floor.
"Clear the rooms!" Sal barked, spitting a glob of tobacco onto the pristine floor. "Mr. Whitmore wants Mercer’s head on a silver platter, and a cool hundred grand for anyone who torches the whole estate!"
"Looking for me?"
The voice came from the curved grand staircase.
Sal and his men snapped their rifles upward. Standing halfway up the stairs, completely calm, stood Julian Mercer. He had removed his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was rolled up at the elbows, revealing muscular forearms. In his right hand, he held a customized Sig Sauer P226 pistol. He didn't even look like a man fighting for his life—he looked like an executioner at an abomination.
"Light him up!" Sal screamed.
Before the first mercenary could pull his trigger, the massive crystal chandelier above them suddenly plunged downward, snapping its steel cable. It crashed into the center of the foyer with a deafening explosion of glass and blinding light, crushing three men instantly.
Panic erupted. The remaining mercenaries fired blindly into the shadows.
Julian moved with terrifying, preternatural speed. He vaulted over the oak banister, landing silently behind the marble pillar. Two quick, suppressed shots rang out—thip, thip—and two more gunmen dropped instantly, neutralised with professional, clinical precision.
Sal snarled, sweeping his rifle around, trying to find his target through the swirling smoke and dust.
"You think you’re untouchable, Mercer?!" Sal roared into the empty air. "The city belongs to Whitmore now!"
"Arthur Whitmore is a bureaucrat playing a gangster’s game," Julian’s voice echoed coldly from directly behind Sal’s ear.
Sal froze. The cold barrel of a pistol pressed firmly against the base of his skull.
"And you," Julian whispered, "are standing in my foyer without an invitation."
A single muffled shot echoed through the hall, and Sal crumpled to the floor like a broken doll.
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Within three minutes, the assault was over. The mercenaries lay defeated, pinned by Mercer’s elite private security force that swarmed out from the hidden alcoves.
The mansion was secure once more.
