Chapter 9 - The Siege of Milton
By 10:00 PM, the storm over Milton had turned into a full gale.
Rain battered the stone facade of the house, and lightning flashed across the dark treeline every few minutes, illuminating the rolling hills in stark, black-and-white brightness.
Inside the estate, every light was turned off.
Reed’s men were positioned at every window—eight seasoned, silent operatives armed with tactical rifles, watching the long driveway and the thick woods behind the property.
In the basement safe room—a reinforced bunker built behind a hidden steel door in the wine cellar—Becca sat with Mia, holding the girl’s hand while monitoring the perimeter camera feeds on her laptop screen.
Sloan refused to go into the safe room.
She stood in the dark main foyer, wearing her heavy boots, a dark jacket, and holding Goliath by his reinforced canvas collar.
Reed walked down the grand staircase, carrying a heavy black tactical shotgun in his right hand. He looked at Sloan, his dark eyes showing a rare moment of genuine respect.
"You should be downstairs with your friend," Reed said against the howl of the wind outside.
"Goliath doesn't know your men," Sloan replied, her hand firm on the mastiff’s neck. "If Vance’s people breach the front doors, your men will be shooting in the dark. Goliath can hear movement through the floorboards before your cameras even pick it up."
Reed looked down at the dog. Goliath was standing completely rigid, his broad chest forward, his nose lifting toward the heavy oak front doors.
"They're at the gate," Frank’s voice crackled through Reed’s earpiece. "Three black suburban utility vans. They just rammed the iron posts. They’re coming up the driveway fast!"
"Rules of engagement are live," Reed said into his mic, his voice dropping into a cold, terrifying calm. "Nobody leaves this property on two feet."
A second later, the sound of automatic gunfire erupted from the front lawn.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the tall leaded windows, turning the foyer into a nightmare of shadows and light. Glass shattered in the upper library. The heavy thud of boots hit the gravel porch outside.
BOOM!
A breaching charge detonated against the front doors, blowing the heavy oak panels inward in a spray of splinters and iron hinges.
Three men in black tactical gear burst through the smoke, their rifles raised.
"Goliath!" Sloan screamed, her hand making a violent, sweeping sign forward. ATTACK!
The mastiff didn't bark. He launched himself through the smoke like a three-hundred-pound cannonball.
He hit the lead intruder mid-stride, his massive jaws locking onto the man’s tactical vest, slamming him back against the stone doorframe with a sickening crack.
Reed stepped out from behind the marble pillar, his shotgun barking twice in rapid succession. The remaining two intruders were thrown back out onto the porch into the pouring rain.
"More on the east terrace!" Frank shouted over the radio. "They’re trying to flank through the conservatory!"
"Go!" Reed ordered Sloan, pointing toward the rear hallway. "Get to the safe room door!"
Sloan pulled Goliath back, her fingers hooked in his handle, and ran down the dark corridor toward the wine cellar stairs.
As she reached the heavy arched doorway leading to the basement, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the butler’s pantry.
It was Johnny Vance.
He was a thin, sleek man in a soaked leather coat, his face twisted in a feral, desperate grin, holding a heavy chrome revolver pointed directly at Sloan’s chest.
"Found you," Vance sneered, his yellowed teeth showing under the dim emergency light. "Give me the flash drives, bitch, or I spill your guts on the carpet."
Goliath growled, stepping in front of Sloan, his lips pulling back over long, dangerous white teeth.
Vance shifted his revolver downward, aiming directly between Goliath’s eyes. "Move the dog, or he dies first."
Sloan didn't breathe.
She knew she had half a second.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't scream.
She dropped her left hand to her hip and made a single, sharp gesture with two fingers:
HEEL AND STRIKE.
Goliath didn't lunge forward into the bullet. He dropped his shoulder low, sweeping his massive body sideways into Vance’s knees with the weight of a falling tree.
Vance gasped as his legs were taken out from under him. The revolver fired into the hardwood floor with a deafening bang as he crashed backward into a display case of silver trays.
Before Vance could recover, Sloan stepped forward, her heavy leather boot descending with full force onto Vance’s wrist.
The chrome gun skidded across the floorboards into the darkness.
Vance shrieked in pain, but before he could crawl away, Goliath was over him, his massive paws pinned against Vance’s shoulders, his jaws hovering two inches from the man’s throat, breathing hot, wet air against his face.
"Don't move," Sloan whispered, her voice colder than the ice storm outside. "He doesn't need a command to tear your throat out. He just needs me to stop holding his collar."
Vance went completely still, his eyes wide with absolute, pathetic terror, his blood pouring from a gash on his forehead onto the polished wood.
Reed Carbone stepped into the hallway, his shotgun resting against his hip, smoke still curling from the barrel.
May you like
He looked down at Vance pinned beneath the mastiff, then up at Sloan.
"Nice work, Miss Hartley," Reed said quietly.
