Chapter 9 - The Siege of Newport
The night sky tore open with blinding white light as magnesium flare mortars launched from the estate’s hidden rooftops, turning the fog into a glowing, surreal wasteland.
Before the syndicate mercenaries could even register the ambush, heavy crossfire from Dominic’s elite security force ripped through their formation. Bullets shredded through the dense brush, dropping half of Viktor’s front line in a matter of seconds. Shouts of sheer terror echoed through the mist as the invaders realized they weren't hunting a target—they were the prey.
Viktor scrambled behind a stone retaining wall, his radio crackling frantically. "Ambush! Fall back to the—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence.
A heavy boot slammed down onto his radio, crushing it into the mud. Viktor looked up, horror freezing his blood.
Dominic Mercer stood over him in the glowing flare light, his black wool coat unbuttoned, his expression utterly void of human emotion. He didn't say a word. He simply raised his sidearm and discharged a single round into Viktor’s shoulder, dropping the syndicate enforcer into the dirt with a sharp cry of agony.
"You brought your little men to my home," Dominic said softly, his voice cutting through the ringing gunfire. "You threatened my sister. You disturbed my nephew's sleep."
Viktor clutched his bleeding shoulder, staring up at Dominic with wide, terrified eyes. "You... you don't know who backs us. The Crescent Syndicate spans three continents. If you kill me, a thousand more will—"
"Let them come," Dominic interrupted, leveling the barrel of his gun directly between Viktor’s eyes. "I own the ports. I own the coastline. And as of tonight, I own your syndicate's entire European ledger."
A sharp, deafening roar drowned out any further words. From the driveway, the heavy iron gates of the estate blew inward in a ball of orange fire. A reinforced armored van tore through the entrance, screeching to a halt right in front of the main mansion.
The rear doors flew open, and out stepped a figure from the past that made Dominic’s dark eyes narrow with sudden, intense clarity.
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Brooke Harrington.
She wasn't in prison. She wasn't wearing a prison jumpsuit. She was dressed in a pristine white trench coat, a malicious, triumphant smile plastered across her face as she pointed a golden automatic pistol directly at the east cottage door.
