Chapter 7 - The Final Gambit"Kill him!" Cross shrieked, his composure completely shattering into raving panic as he pointed a trembling finger at me. "Kill him right now! Take the drive from his cold, dead hands!"
The half-dozen mercenaries raised their rifles instantly, their fingers tightening on the triggers.
They never got the chance to fire.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
From the upper-level sniper towers, the precise, rhythmic reports of high-caliber anti-materiel rifles cut through the thunder. Three of Cross’s men dropped instantly, their ceramic vests shattering under the crushing impact.
Simultaneously, the side gates of the estate blew outward in a massive fireball.
Harold led a heavily armed squad of loyal Blackwood enforcers charging into the courtyard from the flank, catching the remaining mercenaries completely by surprise. Automatic gunfire lit up the rainy night in a blinding symphony of tracer rounds and sparks.
Cross turned to bolt back toward his SUV, diving for the door handle.
I didn't hesitate. I closed the distance between us in three long strides, leaped forward, and tackled him hard into the muddy gravel.
Cross grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. He swung a wild, desperate punch, catching me across the jaw. I tasted copper, but the pain only fueled the fire in my veins. I grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined designer suit, hauled him up to his knees, and slammed my fist straight into his face with the full force of five years of pent-up rage and betrayal.
Cross collapsed backward into the mud, his nose broken, blood pouring freely from his mouth.
I stood over him, looking down like an executioner passing final judgment.
"You burned my Bentley," I said softly, crouching down so my face was inches from his. "You threatened my home. And worst of all... you terrified a little girl who has already suffered enough because of monsters like you."
"Lucas... please..." Cross choked out, spitting blood, his eyes wide with pathetic desperation. "We're partners... we built this empire together... let's talk business—"
"There's no business left, Vincent," I interrupted coldly.
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Sirens began wailing in the distance—federal and state police units, tipped off by the automated data packet I had just transmitted, swarming the perimeter roads.
I stood up, signaling to Harold, who stepped forward with a pair of heavy steel handcuffs and slapped them securely onto Cross’s wrists, dragging the screaming, thrashing traitor toward the flashing red and blue lights of the arriving authorities.
