Chapter 9
The war room was located in the heavily fortified basement of the estate, illuminated by harsh overhead lights that cast no shadows. A massive oak table dominated the center of the room, covered in blueprints of the estate grounds. Vincent and four other senior capos stood around the table, their suit jackets discarded, revealing shoulder holsters and heavily tattooed arms.
"Boss," Vincent nodded as Cullen entered the room. "The trap is set. The courtyard is a kill zone. Snipers are positioned on the east and west parapets. We have heavy machine guns covering the main gate."
"Have you sent the message?" Cullen asked, his deep voice carrying an effortless, commanding authority as he approached the table.
"We used Tove’s phone," Vincent confirmed, sliding the device across the blueprints. "We sent a text to Don Mercer’s private number. It read: 'The inhaler worked. He is dead. Bring the men to secure the house before his capos figure it out.'"
Cullen stared at the phone. His sharply defined jawline tightened. "Did he reply?"
"He did," Vincent smirked darkly, tapping the screen. "He replied: 'On my way. Good girl.' They took the bait, Cullen. He thinks you had an asthma attack and Tove let you die."
"Arrogance makes men incredibly stupid," Cullen murmured, leaning his knuckles against the table. "How long until they arrive?"
"Based on the distance from the Mercer compound, less than twenty minutes," a capo named Russo chimed in. "They will likely roll up in armored SUVs. We expect at least thirty heavily armed men."
"Let them breach the main gate," Cullen instructed slowly, his eyes scanning the blueprints. "I want their vehicles inside the courtyard walls before we close the trap. If we hit them on the street, it becomes a public spectacle. In the courtyard, it is a private execution."
"What about Tove and Chase?" Vincent asked, gesturing toward the heavy steel doors at the far end of the basement that led to the holding cells. "Do we use them as human shields?"
"No," Cullen said, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. "They stay in the cells. When Don Mercer is bleeding out on the cobblestones, I want him to know that his children are locked beneath my feet, and that he failed them."
Suddenly, the heavy radio on the table crackled to life with a burst of static.
"Command, this is Watchtower One," a sniper’s voice echoed through the speaker, his American accent tense and professional. "We have movement at the end of the private access road. Four black Suburbans, running dark without headlights. They are approaching the main gate."
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Cullen slowly stood up to his full height. He casually unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the intricate, sharp tattoos covering his forearms. He reached across the table and picked up a heavy, suppressed tactical pistol, racking the slide with a terrifying, metallic clack.
"Turn off the exterior estate lights," Cullen commanded softly into the radio. "Let them walk into the dark."
