Chapter 3 - Into the Mist
The fog in the cherry orchard was so thick that the moonlight barely penetrated the canopy, turning the rows of trees into endless, twisting labyrinths of gray and green.
Three mercenaries in matte-black tactical gear moved silently through the second row of trees, their silenced submachine guns held at low-ready. Their team leader, a hardened French mercenary named Pierre, gestured toward the distant silhouette of the farmhouse.
"Power is killed," Pierre whispered into his throat-mic. "Target house is dark. Gabriel, primary team is moving to secure the ground floor."
"No survivors except the girl if she’s there, " Gabriel Rossi’s cold, heavily accented voice rasped over the earpiece. "Bring me Dominic’s head."
"Understood," Pierre said. He signaled his men to advance toward the processing shed.
As the second mercenary stepped past an old wooden tractor, a shadow detached itself from the fog behind him.
Before the man could turn, a large hand clamped over his mouth, pulling him backward into the brush with terrifying force. A quick, sharp crack echoed softly in the damp air, drowned out by the rustle of leaves. The mercenary went limp, dragged effortlessly into the darkness.
Pierre stopped ten feet ahead, sensing a sudden change in the air. He turned around, raising his night-vision goggles. "Vogel? Where are you?"
Silence answered him. Only the drip of condensation from the cherry leaves.
"Vogel, respond," Pierre ordered, his heart beginning to beat faster.
Suddenly, a heavy metallic object bounced out of the fog, landing at Pierre’s feet. It was Vogel’s tactical helmet—crushed inward by a violent impact.
"Contact!" Pierre screamed, raising his weapon and firing a burst of suppressed rounds into the fog.
From the trees above, a phantom descended. Dominic dropped onto the second mercenary, slamming him into the muddy earth with kinetic fury. Dominic disarmed the man mid-fall, using the mercenary's own tactical knife to neutralize him before turning his cold gray eyes toward Pierre.
Pierre backed away, firing wildly. Dominic rolled behind a heavy oak tree, the suppressed rounds chewing through the bark.
Before Pierre could reload, a sharp spotlight flared from the roof of the nearby processing shed, blinding his night-vision gear.
Megan stood on the upper catwalk of the shed, holding a heavy halogen searchlight in one hand and her sidearm in the other. She squeezed the trigger twice. The rounds struck Pierre’s shoulder and leg, knocking him to the ground.
Dominic emerged from the fog like a specter, stepping onto Pierre’s chest, pinning him to the earth. He reached down, pulling the mercenary’s radio from his vest.
Dominic pressed the transmit button, bringing the radio to his lips. "Gabriel."
A long pause filled the line, followed by the sound of raspy breathing. "Dominic..." Gabriel sneered from two miles away. "I see you haven't lost your edge."
"Your scouts are dead," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm against the backdrop of the quiet orchard. "Turn your vehicles around and leave Michigan. This is your only warning."
Gabriel laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "You killed my brother, Dominic! You broke our family! I’m going to burn that farm to the ground, and I’m going to make your wife watch before I put her in the dirt!"
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"Then come," Dominic said, smashing the radio beneath his boot. He looked up at the catwalk where Megan stood, her silhouette clear against the night sky.
They had crossed the threshold. The war had officially reached their front door.
