Chapter 4 - The Breach at Red Rocks
"GET DOWN!" I roared.
Instincts honed over thirty years of violence took over instantly. Even without full use of my legs, I threw my upper body across Emily and Maria, pinning them to the floor beneath my heavy torso as glass showered over us.
Garrett Boone burst through the side service door, a submachine gun in his hands, his face covered in soot.
"Julian! They breached the south wall!" Garrett yelled over the deafening chatter of gunfire. "It’s Alvarez! He brought twenty men! They rammed the gates with a garbage truck!"
Nathan was cowering in the corner under a steel massage table, his hands over his ears.
Maria was weeping, clutching Emily against her chest. "They're going to kill us! Oh God, they're going to kill us!"
"Nobody is dying today, Maria," I said, my voice dead and cold as winter ice.
I looked at Garrett. "My chair. Bring it."
Garrett dragged my titanium wheelchair over through the debris. With a surge of pure upper-body strength, I hauled myself into the seat, snapping my seatbelt tight. I reached under the frame of the chair, pressed a hidden mechanical latch, and pulled out two black Glock 17 pistols from a custom compartment.
I checked the magazines with two swift, practiced clicks.
"Garrett," I ordered. "Take Nathan, Maria, and Emily down to the panic room beneath the wine cellar. Lock the steel door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me."
"Mr. Moretti, no!" Emily cried out, grabbing my sleeve. Her small face was pale, but her eyes held mine. "Don't go out there! They will hurt you!"
I looked down at the little girl who had given me back my soul. I reached out and gently smoothed her messy hair.
"Emily," I whispered. "Six years ago, men took my legs because I was soft. Tonight, I show them why I rule this city."
I turned my chair around, racked the slides of both pistols, and rolled out into the smoke-filled hallway.
The house was a warzone. The luxury mahogany paneling was shredded by high-caliber rounds. Bodyguards lay dead or wounded near the grand foyer.
Three masked gunmen wearing tactical vests were advancing up the main staircase, their rifles raised.
They didn't expect a man in a wheelchair to come spinning out of the side corridor.
I didn't hesitate.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four shots fired in less than two seconds. The first two men took rounds directly to the throat; the third fell backward down the stairs with a bullet between his eyes.
I wheeled myself to the top of the marble staircase, looking down into the courtyard below.
Standing near the shattered fountain, surrounded by five heavily armed mercenaries, was Hector Alvarez—the head of the cartel. He was a tall, scarred man holding a chrome plated revolver.
When Hector looked up and saw me sitting at the top of the stairs, holding two smoking pistols, his mouth opened in shock.
"Julian!" Alvarez laughed, though his voice held a trace of hesitation. "Look at you! The king of Denver, riding his little plastic bicycle!"
"You stepped into my house, Hector," I said down to him, my voice carrying across the marble foyer like a death sentence.
"I came for your territory, old man!" Alvarez shouted, raising his gun. "You're broken! You're a cripple hiding behind a little girl!"
Something inside me snapped.
A white-hot rage, fueled by six years of shame, helplessness, and pain, exploded in my chest.
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I didn't use the wheelchair ramp.
I unlocked my brakes, grabbed the hand-rims, and drove my wheelchair straight off the top edge of the marble staircase.
