Chapter 4 - The Art of WarThe rain had stopped, leaving Boston shrouded in a thick, eerie midnight fog.
Three blacked-out SUVs idled outside the neon-lit facade of the Neon Orchid, an upscale underground nightclub in the Financial District owned and operated by Marcus Vance. It was the nerve center of Vance’s operation—a labyrinth of VIP lounges, money laundering operations, and private armories.
Inside the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Lucas Blackwood cleaned the suppressor of his Glock with meticulous precision. Across from him sat Harold, checking the load of an MP5 submachine gun.
"The building is locked down," Harold reported, tapping a tablet displaying a real-time thermal feed of the club. "Vance is in his private penthouse office on the fourth floor. Twenty armed guards stationed at choke points. They’re expecting a quiet night."
"They shouldn't have touched a child," Lucas said softly, sliding the suppressor onto his pistol with a crisp click.
"What about the girl, Boss? She’s currently asleep in the armored car with Dr. Vale monitoring her mother's remote IV."
"When this is over, Clara and Emma are coming to the estate," Lucas stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Permanently. They’ll live in the west wing. Anyone who tries to touch them answers to me."
Harold offered a rare, grim smile. "The west wing? That's where you keep the art collection worth millions, Boss."
"They're worth more than art, Harold. They're the only proof left that humanity didn't entirely die out in this city."
Lucas opened the car door. "Let's go say hello to Marcus."
The assault was clinical, silent, and devastating. Blackwood’s elite enforcers moved through the Neon Orchid like ghosts in the dark. Silenced shots echoed softly over the thumping bass of the empty club below. Guards dropped before they could even unholster their weapons.
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Within four minutes, Lucas kicked open the mahogany double doors of the fourth-floor penthouse office.
Marcus Vance spun around from his oak desk, a glass of scotch half-shattered in his hand, his eyes bulging as he stared down the barrel of Lucas Blackwood’s Glock.
