Chapter 6 - Breach at Midnight
The front mahogany doors of the Cross estate didn't just open; they splintered inward under the concussive force of a breaching charge.
Wood shrapnel flew across the grand foyer as six heavily armed men in black tactical gear and Kevlar vests poured into the marble hall, their submachine guns raised, sweeping the corners with ruthless military precision.
They expected confusion. They expected panic.
Instead, they found absolute, terrifying silence.
The chandeliers overhead were unlit, casting long, fractured shadows across the sweeping staircase. The only sound was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock near the west corridor.
"Clear the ground floor," a raspy voice hissed through a tactical radio comms unit. "Move fast. Gino wants the boy secured and the father eliminated before local law enforcement can respond."
Two operatives peeled off toward the east wing, their boots clicking sharply against the polished stone. As they rounded the corner toward the private family quarters, the hallway lights flickered once—and died completely.
Pitch black.
"What the—" one operative muttered, raising his night-vision goggles.
Before he could adjust the lens, a heavy shadow dropped silently from the vaulted ceiling beam directly above them like a falling hawk.
Crack.
A heavy boot slammed into the first operative’s chest with bone-crushing force, sending him flying backward into the oak wall where he crumpled unconscious. The second operative spun around, his weapon raised, but a gloved hand locked around the barrel of his submachine gun, ripping it upward before a devastating palm strike caught him square under the chin.
He dropped instantly, his body hitting the marble floor with a dull thud.
Stepping out of the absolute dark, silhouetted against the faint moonlight filtering through the high clerestory windows, was Damian Cross. His face was entirely unreadable, cold as carved granite, his pistol held steady in his right hand. He didn't break stride. He simply stepped over the fallen bodies and continued toward the foyer where the bulk of the assault team was concentrated.
In the center of the grand foyer, Marcus Vance stood directing the remaining operatives, his tactical radio crackling with static.
"Status report! What's happening in the east wing?" Marcus barked into his mic.
No answer came back over the comms—only a low, static hiss.
Marcus cursed under his breath, drawing his own sidearm. "Sweep the stairs! Find the boy!"
"You won't have to look very far, Marcus," a cold, resonant voice echoed down from the dark landing above.
Marcus froze. Every man in the foyer snapped their weapons upward toward the stairs.
Standing on the top landing, framed by the shattered remnants of the grand arched window, stood Damian Cross. He wasn't wearing a tactical vest. He wasn't hiding behind cover. He stood entirely exposed, his charcoal shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark eyes burning with an unholy, lethal fury.
"Damian," Marcus sneered, adjusting his grip on his pistol. "You really thought you could hide the boy from Gino forever? The old man wants his bloodline clean, Damian. Either you hand him over, or we take him out of the ashes of this house."
Damian didn't raise his voice. He didn't argue. He simply raised his pistol, pointed it straight at Marcus’s chest, and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The deafening reports echoed off the vaulted ceilings. Marcus staggered backward, dropping his weapon as he clutched his chest, coughing up dark blood before collapsing onto the grand staircase, rolling down three steps before coming to a violent stop.
Panic erupted among the remaining enforcers. "Target sighted! Return fire!"
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Bullets tore through the air, chewing up the banisters and shattering the remaining glass panes in the foyer. But Damian was already gone, melting back into the shadows of the second-floor corridor like a ghost.
The trap had sprung. And Gino’s men were about to learn what happened when you hunted a wolf inside his own den.
