Chapter 9
The pristine, snowy forest behind the Bellacorte estate was deathly silent, the bright moonlight casting long, sharp shadows across the white powder. The temperature hovered near zero, but the men lying prone in the snow felt only the heat of adrenaline.
Richard stood behind the thick stone retaining wall of the lower terrace, an assault rifle resting easily in his hands. Beside him, his top capos were crouched, their breaths pluming in the freezing air. The bright, luminous lights of the mansion had been completely extinguished. The estate was a dark, brooding fortress.
"Thermal optics picking up movement, Boss," his head of security whispered, peering through a specialized scope. "Four vehicles. SUVs. They've bypassed the electronic gate just like the girl said. They're moving up the service road."
"Hold fire," Richard commanded, his voice cold and steady. "Let them get out of the cars. Let them think they have the element of surprise."
The crunch of heavy tires on snow grew louder. Out of the darkness, four black SUVs rolled silently to a stop near the edge of the tree line. The doors opened with barely a whisper. Over a dozen men, dressed in winter tactical gear and carrying suppressed submachine guns, stepped out into the snow.
They moved with professional, deadly efficiency, advancing toward the unlit rear entrance of the estate. They were the Chicago outfit's elite hit squad, sent to secure the port access codes and eliminate any resistance.
They thought they were walking into a sleeping house.
"Wait," Richard murmured, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. The men moved closer, stepping out from the cover of the trees and into the open expanse of the snow-covered lawn.
"Now," Richard said.
Floodlights mounted on the rear of the mansion blazed to life simultaneously.
The sudden, blindingly bright light completely washed out the Chicago hit squad's night vision. They froze in the stark, cinematic illumination, completely exposed against the white snow.
"Open fire!" Richard roared.
The silence of the mountain was shattered by the deafening roar of automatic weapons. From the retaining walls, the second-floor balconies, and the rooftop, Bellacorte soldiers unleashed a torrential hail of gunfire.
The Chicago men never stood a chance. Caught in a deadly crossfire with no cover, the vanguard fell instantly into the snow. The survivors scrambled frantically back toward the SUVs, returning blind, panicked fire that chipped harmlessly against the thick stone walls of the estate.
Richard didn't duck. He stood tall behind the parapet, firing short, controlled bursts. His movements were measured, cold, and dangerous. Every shot found its mark.
"They're falling back to the cars!" a capo yelled over the noise.
"Take out the engine blocks!" Richard ordered.
Heavy caliber rounds tore through the hoods of the SUVs, sparking fires that hissed and spat against the freezing snow. The vehicles were disabled, trapping the remaining Chicago soldiers in the kill zone.
Within three minutes, the firefight was over.
The crisp, clean air smelled heavily of cordite and burning oil. The bright floodlights illuminated the bodies of the rival syndicate's hit squad scattered across the pristine snow.
"Cease fire," Richard called out. The echoes of the gunfire faded into the mountains, leaving only the sound of the wind.
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"Check for survivors," Richard ordered, handing his rifle to a lieutenant. "If any are breathing, bring them to the cellar. I want to know exactly who sent them."
The estate was secure. The threat had been eradicated. But as Richard looked out over the carnage, he knew that this was only a skirmish. Chicago had made a play for his empire, and they would not stop just because one squad failed.
