Chapter 6 - The Siege of Barrington Estate
At 3:00 AM, the perimeter alarms silent-tripped.
I stood in the underground security control room beneath the main house, flanked by Victor and Dr. Vance.
On the wall of tactical monitors, black-and-white infrared feeds showed six heavy SUVs smashing through the main wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the driveway. The heavy steel pillars groaned under the impact, twisting outward as the convoy accelerated up the long, winding road toward the main house.
"They brought a small army, Boss," Victor reported, zooming in on the lead vehicle. "I count at least eighteen armed operatives. They're carrying tactical shotguns and automatic carbines."
"Are Sarah and Lily secure?" I asked, my eyes never leaving the screens.
"They are inside the sub-level safe room," Dr. Vance confirmed. "Eight-inch solid steel walls, independent oxygen supply, and full medical monitors. Even a rocket launcher wouldn't scratch that door."
"Good," I said. "Victor, activate the perimeter security protocol level three."
"With pleasure, sir."
On the screen, the lead SUV reached the halfway mark of the driveway—a narrow stretch bordered by thick pine trees and heavy decorative stone boulders.
With a single tap on Victor’s tablet, the concealed bollards buried beneath the asphalt erupted upward.
The heavy steel posts slammed directly into the undercarriage of the lead vehicle at fifty miles per hour, flipping the two-ton SUV into the air. It landed on its roof with a catastrophic crunch of metal and glass, blocking the narrow driveway entirely.
The remaining SUVs screeched to a halt, their doors flying open as armed men poured out into the darkness, taking positions behind the boulders and opening fire toward the house.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the night like malicious fireflies.
"Activate non-lethal deterrents," I ordered. "I want as many of them alive for federal questioning as possible. Except Vance."
"Understood," Victor said.
High-intensity floodlights—over fifty thousand lumens of harsh white light—erupted from the roof of the estate, completely blinding the attackers below. At the same time, high-frequency directional sound cannons mounted along the perimeter walls began emitting a agonizing 140-decibel acoustic pulse.
Through the camera feeds, we watched Vance’s mercenaries drop their weapons, clutching their ears and falling to their knees in agony.
"Group two is breaching through the rear terrace!" a security guard called out over the radio.
I shifted my gaze to the monitor covering the back patio.
Three men in black tactical gear had bypassed the acoustic pulse by approaching through the woods. One of them—a tall, broad man wearing a heavy trench coat—used an iron crowbar to shatter the glass doors of the conservatory.
It was Julian Vance.
He stepped inside the grand glass house, holding a nickel-plated .45 pistol in his gloved hand. His scarred face was twisted into a grotesque sneer of righteous arrogance.
"Hale!" Vance’s voice echoed through the house via the intercom system. "I know you're listening, you arrogant piece of shit! Give me the girl and the drive, or I will turn this palace into your tomb!"
I looked at Victor. "Stay here and monitor the perimeter. I'm going up."
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"Mr. Hale, that's unsafe—" Victor began.
"He's in my house, Victor," I said, pulling a compact 9mm sidearm from the wall vault and checking the magazine. "It's time to settle the bill."
