Chapter 7 - THE BLOOD ON THE FORTY-SECOND FLOORThe second mercenary spun around, his submachine gun tracking toward the dog, but before he could squeeze the trigger, Vincenzo drew his Beretta and fired twice.
Bang! Bang!
The mercenary dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering across the polished floorboards.
"Federal agents! Don't move!" Agent Vance yelled, pulling his own Glock from his shoulder holster as he scrambled to his feet, coughing from the white phosphorus smoke. But as he looked up, he froze.
Titan stood over the first mercenary, his jaws clamped around the man's forearm, ripping the submachine gun away as if it were a twig. The dog didn't kill this one; he pinned him to the floor with a hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight, his single amber eye fixed on the second intruder with cold, unyielding malice.
"You..." Agent Vance stammered, lowering his weapon slowly as he stared at the carnage in the boardroom. "That... that wasn't a random attack. That was a targeted extraction."
"I told you," Vincenzo said, walking over to his desk and picking up his smoking gun. "He’s my head of security."
Sirens began to wail outside the tower—distant at first, then rapidly growing louder as the downtown police department and federal backup units responded to the shots fired on the forty-second floor.
"Vincenzo, you need to get out of here," Vance said, wiping soot from his forehead. "The entire city is going to lock down within ten minutes. If the Red Scorpions know about the chip in that dog's head, they aren't going to send two men next time. They're going to bring a small army."
Vincenzo didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his encrypted satellite phone.
"Paulie! Miller!" he barked into the comms channel. "Prep the armored chopper on the roof. We're going home. And call Dr. Vance—tell him to meet us in the estate medical bay with a surgical scanner. We're going to dig that chip out of the dog's skull tonight."
"Boss," Paulie’s voice crackled back over the static. "You got company at the gates. The local precinct is blocking the southern access, and thermal drones are circling the perimeter. We're boxed in."
Vincenzo looked down at Titan.
The massive dog had released the pinned mercenary, who was now crawling away whimpering in pain. Titan trotted over to Vincenzo, his tail giving one short, sharp wag—not of playfulness, but of absolute, combat-ready readiness.
At that exact moment, the private elevator chime dinged softly.
The heavy steel doors slid open.
Standing inside the elevator car was not a SWAT team, nor a squad of Red Scorpion hitmen. It was Arya.
She was standing there alone, wearing her grey wool coat, her school backpack slung over one shoulder. She looked past the shattered glass, past the bleeding mercenaries, past the stunned federal agent, and straight at her father.
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She raised her hand, holding up her small leather notepad. On it, written in bold, unsteady marker strokes, were three words:
WE ARE GOING HOME.
