Chapter 9
Julian Vance’s arrogant smile vanished. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse standing in the winter draft.
"Ambush..." one of the mercenaries behind him gasped, his rifle wavering.
"You see, Julian," Richard murmured, his voice velvety and devoid of fear, "Mark thought he was using you to overthrow me. But Frank intercepted your encrypted transmissions three weeks ago. I let you drive all the way up this mountain so I wouldn't have to hunt you down across the five boroughs."
Julian swallowed hard, his knuckles turning white around his walking stick. "Richard... let’s be reasonable. The Commission won't sanction an open slaughter between our families."
"The Commission doesn't govern my mountain, Julian," Richard said, closing the distance in three measured strides until he stood less than arm’s length from the rival boss. "You entered my lodge uninvited. You conspired with traitors. You die here."
Before Julian could raise his walking stick, Richard moved with blinding, explosive speed.
His left hand shot forward like an iron clamp, seizing Julian by the throat and slamming him backward against the heavy cedar doorframe. In the same motion, Richard brought the 1911 up, pressing the cold steel barrel firmly beneath Julian’s chin.
"Tell your men outside to drop their weapons and surrender the keys," Richard whispered into Julian’s ear, his voice chilled with lethal finality. "Or your brains will decorate my entrance hall before the clock strikes midnight."
Julian gasped for breath, his eyes wide with animal panic. "Drop... drop your guns! Drop them now!" he choked out to his men.
The mercenaries didn't hesitate. They unclipped their rifles, letting them clatter onto the hardwood floor, raising their hands in total surrender.
"Viktor," Richard commanded, not taking his eyes off Julian. "Disarm them. Zip-tie them. Lock them in the lower garage with the others."
"Yes, Boss!" Viktor’s men moved in with practiced, ruthless efficiency.
Richard released his grip, allowing Julian to slump to the floor, gasping and clutching his bruised throat.
Richard turned back to the room. The green laser sights clicked off as the threat was neutralized. He walked over to where Mark and Claudia sat trembling in the wreckage of the gift table.
"Get up," Richard said.
They scrambled to their feet, swaying, terrified to look him in the eyes.
"Santino," Richard said, his tone flat and emotionless.
Santino stepped down from the mezzanine stairs. "Sir."
"Take Mark and Claudia to the service road," Richard commanded, every word falling like an iron gavel. "Take their phones. Take their jewelry. Give them two thousand dollars in cash and leave them at the bus depot in Denver. If either of them ever sets foot in this state again, put a bullet in their heads."
"Dad! Please!" Mark wailed, falling to his knees and clawing at Richard’s trousers. "I’m your son! Your only son!"
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Richard looked down at him with pure, unmitigated contempt. "My son died when he put a belt across a three-year-old boy's back. Get them out of my sight."
Santino and two guards grabbed Mark and Claudia by their collars, hauling them screaming and sobbing through the service doors into the cold night.
