Chapter 8 - Fire in the TimberThe first Ford Expedition cleared the tree line at 11:42 PM, its headlights switched off, creeping along the frozen dirt track on battery power alone.
Inside the cabin, the lights were completely off. The only illumination came from the dying embers of the wood stove, casting long, dancing shadows across the pine walls.
From the second-story loft window, Roman tracked the lead vehicle through the crosshairs of a night-vision scope.
"Let them get past the cattle guard," Roman whispered into his headset comm.
"Copy," Eli's voice crackled back from the generator shed fifty yards to the left. "I've got the rear vehicle covered. Once they dismount, we cross-fire."
The first SUV rolled to a silent halt twenty yards from the front porch. Four men in dark tactical gear stepped out, their rifles raised, moving with the practiced, synchronized precision of a wet-work team. The lead man—a hulking figure with a scarred jaw and a suppressed M4 carbine—gestured toward the reinforced front door.
"Charge the hinges," a voice hissed through the comms.
They didn't know the cabin had a secondary defense grid.
Roman squeezed a small toggle switch mounted under the window frame.
BOOM.
A directional claymore mine hidden in the pine boughs above the driveway detonated with a thunderous roar, sending a storm of steel ball bearings shredding through the canopy and pepper-spraying the front SUV with shrapnel. The vehicle's windshield shattered into a million tiny diamonds, and the lead two operatives went down instantly, screaming in the dirt.
"Contact!" the surviving rear operative yelled, diving behind the engine block of the second SUV.
Before he could raise his weapon, Eli’s rifle barked twice from the generator shed. The rear vehicle's tires exploded with loud pop-pop sounds, flattening the rubber against the frozen mud and trapping them in the kill zone.
Roman didn't wait for them to recover. He kicked open the side door of the cabin, stepped out into the freezing night air, and advanced with cold, methodical fury.
Two minutes. That was all it took.
When the smoke cleared and the echoes of gunfire faded back into the silent Maine pines, four men lay motionless in the mud.
Eli walked up, kicking a fallen rifle away from an operative's twitching hand, and checked a pulse before looking up at Roman.
"All clear," Eli said, wiping soot from his forehead. "They were Boston crew, Boss. Marcus Vance’s personal enforcers."
Roman stared down at the lead operative gasping for breath against the wrecked SUV. He crouched down, grabbing the man by the tactical vest, lifting him until their eyes met.
"Tell Marcus," Roman whispered, his voice like grinding ice, "that his brother is in a cell, and he's next."
The operative coughed up blood, a bitter smile twisting his scarred lips. "You... you think Marcus... stops with us? He’s already... on a plane... heading for Portland."
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Roman dropped him back into the mud.
He stood up slowly, looking south toward the dark horizon where the city lights of Portland blinked against the clouds.
