Chapter 4 - The Siege of the Penthouse
The red emergency strobe lights overhead began to strobe rhythmically, bathing the luxury penthouse in an eerie, hellish glow.
Andrew didn't panic. Panic was for amateurs; execution was for professionals. In less than three seconds, the grief and shock evaporated from his system, replaced by the lethal, ice-cold clarity of a warlord defending his keep.
“How many?” Andrew asked, snatching a tactical shotgun from the hidden wall rack behind the bookcase and slamming six 12-gauge shells into the tube.
“At least six,” Marcus panted, wiping blood from his brow with the back of his tactical glove. “Professional kit. Night-vision gear, suppressed MP5s, thermal breaching charges. They didn't come to rob the place, Andrew. They came to wipe the slate clean.”
Andrew turned his gaze to Elizabeth. She was standing calmly by the desk, holding Alex’s glass of warm milk as if a gunfight wasn't about to erupt through the floorboards.
“You knew this was coming,” Andrew stated, racking the shotgun with a sharp, metallic clack.
“I knew they were looking for loose ends,” Elizabeth replied, her voice eerily serene. “My brother kept a digital backup of the garage security footage on an encrypted flash drive. When they killed him, they thought they got it. They didn't know he mailed it to me the morning he died.”
“And you brought it here?” Andrew stared at her in disbelief. “You walked straight into a lion's den with a target on your back?”
“I didn't walk into a lion's den,” Elizabeth said, meeting his fierce glare with an unwavering intensity. “I walked into a trap. And now you’re going to spring it.”
A massive BOOM shook the floorboards beneath their feet.
The reinforced steel service door at the end of the main hallway had just taken a direct hit from a linear shaping charge. Smoke billowed through the HVAC vents, carrying the acrid smell of C4 explosive and burnt nylon.
“Marcus!” Andrew barked, handing the secondary Sig Sauer to Elizabeth, who caught it out of the air with one hand and checked the safety without blinking. “Take the boy through the panic room tunnel behind the library. Get him to the safe house on 81st Street.”
“I’m not leaving you, Boss,” Marcus growled, drawing his Glock.
“That wasn't a request, Marcus! If Alex dies, there is nothing left of me to avenge this family! Move!”
Marcus didn't argue further. He sprinted down the corridor toward the guest suite where Alex was sleeping.
Andrew turned to Elizabeth, who stood beside him near the threshold of the study, the pistol held in a textbook combat stance.
“If we survive this,” Andrew muttered, reloading his shotgun barrel, “you’re going to tell me every single thing you know.”
“Deal,” she whispered.
The heavy oak doors of the study blew inward in a cloud of splinters and white-hot shrapnel.
Two tactical operatives in matte-black gear poured through the smoking breach, rifles raised, sweeping the room with lethal efficiency.
Andrew didn't hesitate. He stepped out from behind the desk, raised the 12-gauge, and pulled the trigger.
The blast tore through the first operative’s chest armor, sending him flying backward against the bookshelf. The second operative spun toward Andrew, but before he could fire, a sharp, clean crack echoed through the room.
Elizabeth’s bullet caught the second operative square in the throat. He dropped his rifle, clutching his neck, and collapsed onto the Persian rug.
Smoke filled the hallway. More footsteps pounded up the private staircase—heavy, synchronized, and deadly.
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Andrew looked at Elizabeth through the haze of gunsmoke. The ice in his veins turned to liquid fire.
“Let’s go hunting,” he said.
