Chapter 8
Outside, the circular gravel driveway was swallowed in pitch darkness. The heavy iron gates of the estate swung open with a slow, automated groan, inviting the three black SUVs into the trap.
The lead vehicle rolled to a halt fifty feet from the grand entrance portico. The doors flew open, and six operatives in tactical gear, carrying suppressed carbines, spilled out onto the gravel, moving in a tight diamond formation. From the second vehicle stepped Marcus Cole—a broad, silver-haired man of sixty-two, wearing a dark trench coat, his face tight with predatory ambition.
"Secure the foyer!" Marcus barked into his headset. "Get Gavin and the girl! If Ferrante resists, put a bullet in his head and burn the structure!"
Before his men could take three steps toward the limestone stairs, the entire estate facade erupted into blinding white light.
Sixteen high-intensity stadium halogen searchlights, concealed along the roofline and the upper balconies, blazed to life simultaneously. The courtyard was bathed in an unforgiving, surgical glare that blinded the incoming strike team.
"Ambush!" the lead mercenary screamed, raising his weapon to shield his eyes.
The silence of the night was shattered by the synchronized, thunderous roar of Ferrante firepower.
From the second-floor stone balustrades, the tree line, and the garage ramp, heavy machine guns and designated marksmen opened fire in a coordinated crossfire. The gravel driveway erupted in geysers of stone and shrapnel. The lead SUV’s windshield shattered into a web of white cracks before collapsing entirely, its radiator exploding in a hiss of pressurized steam.
Two mercenaries dropped instantly, their armor shredded by high-caliber rounds. The remaining operatives scrambled for cover behind the vehicle doors, firing frantic, unguided bursts toward the upper windows.
At the top of the grand portico stairs, the heavy oak doors swung open.
Nico Ferrante stepped out onto the porch.
He didn't take cover. He didn't flinch as stray rounds chipped the limestone pillars beside him. He walked down the center of the stairs with slow, untouchable authority, his Colt 1911 held loosely at his side, his white shirt glowing beneath the searchlights.
Behind him marched Cassian and four soldiers, laying down disciplined, semi-automatic fire that systematically dismantled the surviving mercenaries.
Marcus Cole dove behind the rear quarter panel of his SUV, his trench coat covered in gravel, clutching a submachine gun with trembling hands. His fair skin was flushed with panic, his breath coming in ragged, terrified wheezes.
"Cease fire," Nico’s voice echoed across the courtyard, clear and authoritative over the fading echoes of gunfire.
The shooting stopped instantly.
Smoke drifted across the gravel, smelling of burnt cordite, spilled transmission fluid, and sulfur. Seven mercenaries lay motionless around the vehicles. The remaining two were on their knees with their hands behind their heads, pinned by red laser dots from the balcony snipers.
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Nico walked down the final steps, his leather shoes crunching over the shattered glass and spent brass casings. He stopped five feet from the bumper of Marcus’s SUV.
"Marcus," Nico said, his voice quiet, calm, and carrying across the dead courtyard. "You forgot your coat."
