Chapter 5 - Breach at the East Gate
The rain outside turned into a torrential downpour, sheets of water blinding the exterior security cameras along the perimeter fence.
In the estate’s ground-floor security control room, three massive monitors flickered with static. The red light indicating perimeter breach blinked furiously on sector four—the secondary service gate near the old greenhouse.
“Boss,” Victor’s voice blasted through the secure comms earpiece linked to Alexander’s ear. “We’ve got movement at the East Gate. Four individuals, tactical gear, moving fast through the garden toward the West Wing annex. They bypassed the biometric sensors using a localized EMP device.”
“Are they local enforcers?” Alexander asked, moving swiftly down the carpeted corridor toward the grand staircase, his pistol held safely at a low ready.
“No,” Victor grunted, the sound of muffled gunfire echoing in the background. “Moretti’s professional clean-up squad. They’re here to erase whatever Mercer might have told us, and anyone who was in the room when he confessed.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened into a granite line. They were coming for David. They were coming for Christina.
“Lock down the main residence,” Alexander ordered, stepping out onto the second-floor landing overlooking the grand foyer. “Route them toward the east corridor. Let them think they have a clear path to the nursery.”
“Boss, that’s a kill zone—you’ll be right in the middle of it.”
“Exactly,” Alexander snapped, switching off the comms.
He didn't hesitate. He descended the stairs into the darkened foyer, the crystal chandelier casting long, twisting shadows across the marble floor. He positioned himself behind a massive stone pillar near the entrance of the West Wing corridor, blending seamlessly into the architectural gloom.
Ten seconds later, the reinforced glass panel beside the East Wing service door shattered inward.
Two men in black tactical gear dropped silently through the broken frame, their submachine guns raised, sweeping the perimeter with practiced military efficiency. They moved with terrifying discipline, boots splashing silently against the wet marble.
The lead operative gestured toward the West Wing archway. “Target is upstairs. Move, move, move.”
They took three steps forward.
“Drop your weapons,” Alexander’s voice cut through the dark corridor like a gunshot.
The operatives spun around instantly, their barrels swinging toward the stone pillar. But Alexander was already moving. He fired twice—not to kill, but to disable. The first round struck the lead operative’s weapon, shattering the receiver and tearing the submachine gun from his hands. The second round caught the second operative’s shoulder, spinning him hard against the oak wall.
Before the remaining two men could recover, heavy footsteps echoed from the rear corridor.
Victor and three armed security specialists poured into the foyer from the service elevator, their assault rifles leveled at the intruders.
“Drop the gear or you die where you stand!” Victor bellowed, his voice shaking the vaulted ceiling.
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The two remaining operatives looked at each other, glanced at the armed guards surrounding them, and slowly let their weapons slip from their hands, crashing onto the marble floor.
“Secure them,” Alexander commanded, walking out from the shadow of the pillar. His breathing was steady, his pulse calm. The adrenaline of the fight had only sharpened his focus. “Take them down to the lower vault with Mercer. I want to know every name on Moretti’s payroll before dawn.”
