Chapter 8
The sprawling estate of the Ashford family was transformed from a luxurious residence into a heavily fortified war zone in a matter of minutes. The bright, cinematic lighting of the exterior was killed, plunging the manicured lawns into darkness, save for the sweeping, erratic beams of tactical flashlights.
Silas Ashford stepped out of the heavy front doors. The crisp white fabric of his shirt contrasted sharply with the dark night and the artistic tattoos covering his hands. He drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from a shoulder holster, his sharp jawline set in stone. He left the tailored dark suit jacket inside; he was no longer a politician, he was a warlord.
"Are they holding at the gates, or have they breached the perimeter?" Silas asked his lead enforcer over the deafening sound of a distant explosion that rattled the windows.
"They blew the southern gate, Boss!" the enforcer yelled over the radio. "They’re moving up the main drive. Three heavily armored SUVs. They’re firing wildly, trying to pin our boys down!"
"Do they expect us to cower in the mansion and wait for them to knock?" Silas asked, a cold, ruthless smirk touching his lips. "Order the men to flank them through the hedge maze. We catch them in a crossfire before they reach the courtyard."
Silas didn't wait in the safety of the portico. He moved with the lethal, practiced grace of an apex predator, slipping into the shadows of the expansive gardens. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning rubber from the destroyed iron gate.
He navigated the familiar grounds effortlessly, flanking the advancing Cross convoy. The heavy SUVs were crawling up the driveway, their headlights illuminating the flying dirt and gravel as Ashford enforcers rained fire down upon them from the upper balconies of the mansion.
Silas reached the edge of the tree line, perfectly positioned beside the lead vehicle. He leaned against the thick trunk of an ancient oak, steadying his weapon.
"Are you ready to show them what happens when they insult our family?" Silas whispered into his radio, his deep voice eerily calm amidst the chaos.
"On your mark, Boss," came the immediate, tense reply.
"Fire," Silas commanded simply.
The ambush was devastating. From the darkness of the hedge maze and the tree line, a coordinated, brutal volley of automatic weapons fire tore into the side of the Cross convoy. The element of surprise was absolute. The heavy SUVs skidded and crashed into one another, tires blowing out and engines catching fire under the relentless, synchronized assault.
May you like
Silas stepped out of the shadows, his weapon raised. He fired with terrifying, cold precision, dropping three armed men who spilled out of the lead vehicle before they could even raise their rifles. His face was a mask of unyielding fury, the very short stubble catching the erratic flashes of gunfire.
The Cross forces, realizing they had walked into a meticulously planned kill box, broke rapidly. The aggressive invasion turned into a panicked, desperate retreat. The surviving men scrambled backward toward the ruined gates, abandoning their burning vehicles on the pristine driveway.
