Chapter 12
"I do not negotiate with mercenaries," Damon stated coldly, the deeply masculine, intimidating aura of the veteran Mafia boss radiating even through the phone.
"You might want to reconsider," the voice chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "We know about the children, Damon. We know they are inside the main house. We are willing to walk away and return the advance to our client, provided you double the payout. Fifty million dollars, wired to an offshore account within ten minutes."
The mention of his sons caused a cold, liquid nitrogen fury to flood Damon's veins. He thought of Micah, tied to the post, and Caleb, terrified under the blindfold. He had burned his engagement to the ground to protect them, and he would gladly burn this mercenary army to ashes.
"You made a critical error in your intelligence gathering," Damon whispered, his voice dropping into a register of apocalyptic menace.
"And what is that?" the mercenary leader asked, a hint of confusion breaking his professional facade.
"You assumed I was trapped," Damon said softly. "Look behind you."
Damon ended the call. He looked up at Marcus. "Execute."
Marcus tapped his earpiece. "All teams, weapons free. Annihilate them."
Outside the estate walls, the mercenary strike force had carefully positioned themselves in the tree line, preparing for a coordinated breach. They believed they held the tactical advantage. They were entirely wrong.
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Damon hadn't just fortified his walls; he had deployed his most elite hunter-killer squads into the woods hours ago. The moment the order was given, the darkness erupted into a chaotic, deafening crossfire. The Roswell operatives, equipped with thermal optics and suppressed weapons, unleashed a devastating, coordinated ambush.
The mercenaries, caught completely off guard, were systematically shredded before they could even aim their rifles. The professional, immaculate suits of the Roswell guards moved through the trees like phantoms, neutralizing the threat with ruthless, surgical precision.
