Chapter 7 - NIGHT OF THE WOLVES“Stay behind me,” I whispered, pulling a concealed, custom 9mm handgun from the hidden compartment under the coffee table.
The storm outside had intensified, howling through the tall pine trees, masking the sounds of approach. Rain lashed violently against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
“Arthur,” I barked into my secure satellite phone. “Power is out. Perimeter breached. Send the security team up from the gatehouse NOW.”
Nothing but static answered through the receiver.
“They jammed the signal,” Clara whispered, backing toward the hallway. “They brought professional mercenaries, Mr. Vance. Brandon has millions in hidden offshore cash. He bought help.”
Suddenly, the heavy glass patio doors shattered into a million sparkling shards.
Three men dressed in tactical black gear, armed with silenced submachine guns, burst into the dark living room.
I didn't hesitate. I raised my weapon and fired three rapid shots into the lead intruder. The dark figure crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Emily, run to the panic room in the basement!” I yelled, shoving her toward the hidden door behind the bookshelf. “Clara, go with her!”
“Dad, no!” Emily shrieked.
“GO!”
I ducked behind the heavy marble kitchen island just as a hail of suppressed gunfire shredded the wooden cabinets and leather sofas above my head. Splinters and drywall dust rained down in the darkness.
I counted the muzzle flashes. Two remaining attackers in the living room.
I reached under the island, pulled a heavy iron fire extinguisher from its bracket, pulled the safety pin, and hurled it into the center of the dark room. As it landed near the couch, I brought up my pistol and shot the pressurized cylinder directly through the iron casing.
BOOM!
A blinding explosion of compressed chemical white dust expanded through the living room, completely blinding the mercenaries' night-vision goggles. They began coughing furiously, firing wildly into the cloud.
I stepped out from behind the island, firing double-taps through the dust. Two bodies hit the hardwood floor.
Silence returned to the house, broken only by the sound of the howling wind through the broken window.
I reloaded my weapon, my breathing steady, my eyes scanning the shadows. Forty years ago, before I made my billions, I was a Special Reconnaissance operative in the military. Brandon thought he was hunting a wealthy old maintenance man. He had no idea he had stepped into the lair of an old predator.
Suddenly, a cold metal barrel pressed against the back of my neck.
“Don't move, old man,” a familiar sneering voice whispered right into my ear.
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It was Brandon. He was drenched in rain, his face twisted in a manic, insane grin, smelling of gunpowder and copper.
“You ruined my life,” Brandon hissed, clicking the hammer of his revolver back. “You took my money, my house, my family name. Now I’m going to make you watch me bleed your daughter dry.”
