Chapter 4 - The Strike of the Clock
The glass terrace doors shattered inward in a spray of sharp, sparkling shards!
Marco and his five hitmen burst into the grand drawing room, their boots crunching on the broken glass, their suppressed weapons raised, scanning the dark corners. The room smelled of old leather, expensive bourbon, and fresh roses from Hannah’s vases.
"Clear!" one mercenary hissed.
"Spread out," Marco ordered, adjusting his night-vision goggles. "Two of you take the east wing—find the housekeeper and the kid. The rest of you come with me to the master suite."
"I wouldn't advise splitting up," a deep, chilling voice echoed from the dark balcony above them.
The six men spun around, raising their weapons toward the grand staircase!
A single overhead spotlight suddenly flared to life, blinding their night-vision optics with brilliant, searing white light!
Damian Cross stood at the top of the marble staircase, looking down at them like a dark monarch inspecting intruders in his throne room. He wore no helmet, no body armor—just his dark sweater and the terrifying, calm confidence of a man who owned every inch of the ground they stood on.
"Cross!" Marco yelled, ripping off his blinded goggles and firing a burst of automatic rounds toward the stairs!
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The bullets tore into the oak paneling, but Damian was already moving. He vaulted over the marble banister, dropping twelve feet into the center of the drawing room with the silent grace of a panther!
Before the first mercenary could adjust his aim, Damian grabbed the barrel of the man’s rifle, twisting it violently downward while driving a heavy combat knife straight into the gap beneath the man’s tactical vest!
The mercenary collapsed with a choked gasp. Damian spun, using the falling body as a shield as two more hitmen opened fire!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Damian’s silver sidearm roared in the enclosed space! Two rapid, precise shots echoed through the mansion—one through the forehead of the second mercenary, the second tearing through the knee of the third, dropping him screaming to the marble floor!
In less than six seconds, three of the six elite hitmen were dead or crippled.
Marco’s eyes dilated with absolute terror. This was not the quick, easy assassination Vincent Moretti had promised. This was a meat grinder.
"Retreat! To the doors!" Marco screamed, backing away while firing blindly into the smoke!
The remaining two mercenaries turned to run back through the shattered terrace doors—only to freeze in their tracks.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the moonlight and fog, were Victor Reyes and four heavily armed Cross tactical enforcers. Their laser sights painted bright crimson dots directly onto the chests of the two fleeing men.
"Drop your weapons," Victor commanded coldly. "Or we paint the patio red."
The two mercenaries dropped their rifles instantly, raising their hands in surrender.
Marco, realizing he was completely trapped, dropped his gun, fell to his knees, and put his hands behind his head, his chest heaving with terrified breaths.
Damian walked slowly through the drifting gunsmoke, his boots clicking rhythmically against the blood-stained marble floor. He stopped in front of Marco, looking down at the hitman with icy detachment.
"Who sent you, Marco?" Damian asked, his voice disturbingly calm.
"You know who sent us, Cross!" Marco spat, trembling despite his attempt to sound tough. "Vincent Moretti! He’s got Thomas’s daughter! If we don't report back, she dies!"
Damian pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed a button, and held the speaker toward Marco.
A woman’s voice filled the drawing room—clear, relieved, and sitting inside a secure transport vehicle: “Dad? Is that you? Some nice men in blue suits just pulled me out of that cabin. They said Damian Cross saved me!”
Marco’s face turned ghost-white. "How... how did you know?"
"A little girl drew me a picture," Damian said softly.
He nodded to Victor. "Take them to the sub-basement. Clean the drawing room before 6:00 AM. I don't want Hannah or Ellie seeing blood on the marble."
"And Thomas, Boss?" Victor asked quietly, gesturing toward the hallway where the old security chief was standing, tears streaming down his weathered face as he listened to his daughter’s voice on the speaker.
Damian turned his gaze toward Thomas Vance. The old man looked broken, his shoulders slumped, waiting for the execution bullet he knew he deserved.
Damian walked over to Thomas, stopping a foot away.
"You traded my life for Sarah’s," Damian said, his voice flat.
"I’m sorry, Damian," Thomas sobbed openly, dropping to his knees at Damian’s feet. "I couldn't watch them hurt my little girl. Shoot me. Just... please make sure Sarah stays safe."
Damian stared down at the man who had taken a bullet for his father twenty years ago. He reached out, grabbed Thomas by the lapels of his coat, and hauled the heavy old man back onto his feet.
"You’re a terrible traitor, Thomas," Damian grunted, his eyes fierce. "And an idiot for not coming to me first. You think I wouldn't burn Chicago to the ground to save your daughter?"
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Thomas blinked through his tears, stunned. "You... you aren't going to kill me?"
"No," Damian said, turning his back on him. "You’re going to help me destroy Vincent Moretti tomorrow night. And then you’re going to retire to Florida, where I never have to look at your stupid face again."
