Chapter 8 - Siege of the Wolfe Compound
A firefight against thirty entrenched mercenaries would be suicide for an amateur.
For a Tier-1 operator who had spent a decade conducting deep-reconnaissance sabotage behind enemy lines in Syria and Afghanistan, it was simply an exercise in target prioritization and psychological warfare.
Private contractors do not fight to the death. They fight for a paycheck. The moment the cost of the contract exceeds the probability of survival, mercenaries do what they always do: they break and run.
I didn't take the road.
I moved through the rocky ravine flanking the eastern ridge of the mountain, using the torrential rain and the wailing compound siren to mask the sound of my movement.
Fifty yards up the slope, I encountered the first outer patrol: two contractors in rain ponchos carrying FN FAL battle rifles. They were huddled under a rock overhang, miserable, shivering in the downpour.
I slipped behind them like a ghost.
Two rapid, non-lethal strikes to the carotid plexus dropped both men into the mud before their fingers could even twitch toward their triggers. I confiscated their night-vision goggles, cut their comms wires, zip-tied their hands, and moved on.
At the halfway mark, a heavy machine-gun nest had been set up inside a wooden gazebo overlooking the hairpin turn. A contractor was manning a mounted .50 caliber Browning, scanning the empty pavement below.
I climbed the stone retaining wall behind the gazebo, pulled an incendiary smoke grenade from my vest, and tossed it through the wooden lattice.
*WHOOSH.*
Thick, suffocating chemical smoke filled the gazebo. The gunner and his spotter scrambled out into the rain, coughing violently, eyes streaming with tears. As they cleared the door, I stepped from the shadows, sweeping their legs out from beneath them, neutralizing both with clean, precise joint locks.
By the time I reached the perimeter of the main manor house, twelve contractors had been systematically eliminated without a single shot fired from my rifle.
The remaining eighteen men were clustered around the grand circular driveway of the stone mansion, terrified. The siren had suddenly cut off—Sarah Lin had finally breached the estate's private generator subnet—and the sudden, suffocating silence of the dark mountain was infinitely more terrifying than the noise.
"Where are the patrols?!" one of the contractors shouted, his weapon light trembling in the rain. "Why isn't Team Two answering?!"
"They're gone, man! He took 'em out silent!"
"Screw this! Victor didn't pay us enough to fight Delta Force in the dark!"
A red laser dot suddenly appeared on the chest of the contractor captain.
He froze.
From the tree line thirty yards away, my voice cut through the downpour, amplified by the natural acoustics of the stone courtyard:
"Drop your weapons and walk down the mountain," I said, my voice steady, merciless, and calm. "Your contract is terminated. The federal cavalry is ten minutes behind me. If you are holding a weapon when they arrive, you are an enemy combatant. If you throw them down, you walk away."
The captain looked at the red dot dancing on his sternum. He looked at the pitch-black woods. He looked at the massive, doomed mansion behind him.
He unslung his rifle and dropped it into the gravel.
"We're out," he announced.
Within ninety seconds, every single contractor had cast their weapons into the mud and vanished down the mountain road into the dark, leaving the great house completely defenseless.
The heavy front doors of Wolfe Manor were carved from solid oak, reinforced with wrought iron.
I didn't bother picking the lock.
I took the master key fob I had taken off Mason at the gatehouse, pressed the electronic release, and kicked the doors wide open.
The foyer was cavernous, boasting marble floors, a sweeping double staircase, and crystal chandeliers that hung dark and silent.
Standing at the top of the grand staircase, illuminated only by the flashes of lightning through the skylight, was Garrett Wolfe.
He was holding a customized twelve-gauge tactical shotgun. His pristine clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and crazed with fear and fury.
"Mercer!" Garrett screamed, raising the shotgun.
*BOOM.*
The shotgun blast shredded the antique grandfather clock beside the entrance, sending wooden splinters and brass gears flying across the marble.
I was already moving.
I dove behind a massive marble pillar as the second blast pulverized the plaster where my head had been half a second earlier.
*BOOM.*
Garrett pumped the slide frantically, screaming incoherently: "You destroyed us! You ruined forty years of work! She was just a woman! She was just a stupid, stubborn bitch who wouldn't sign!"
*That was your final mistake, Garrett.*
I stepped out from behind the pillar as he fired the third round. I didn't dodge. I timed the cycle of his pump action. As the spent red shell ejected into the air, I closed the distance up the marble staircase in three explosive strides.
Before he could chamber the fourth round, my left hand drove forward, catching the barrel of the shotgun and shoving it violently toward the ceiling.
*BOOM.*
The buckshot blew a hole through the skylight, sending rain and shards of glass pouring down onto our heads like icy diamonds.
I wrenched the shotgun from his grip, spun him around, and drove my knee into his spine. Garrett cried out, tumbling down the flight of marble stairs, crashing hard against the lower landing.
He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, spitting blood, staring up at me as I descended the stairs one step at a time.
"No... no, please, Mercer..." Garrett whimpered, holding his bruised hands up in a pathetic gesture of defense. "We can make a deal! Millions! I have thirty million in gold in the basement vault! Take it! Take all of it and let me go!"
I reached the bottom of the stairs.
I stood over him, looking down into the face of the man who had held my wife by her hair while his brother swung the hammer.
"Thirty-one," I whispered.
"What?!" Garrett sobbed.
I stepped forward and drove my fist into his jaw with every ounce of fury, every sleepless night in deployment, and every tear Tessa had cried in that ICU.
*Seven.*
Garrett’s head snapped sideways. His jaw shattered instantly. He collapsed onto the cold marble floor, unconscious before his forehead touched the stone.
The house was dead silent, save for the rain falling through the broken skylight.
At the far end of the hallway, the heavy steel door to the master study was standing slightly ajar.
A single, dim desk lamp shone from within.
May you like
Victor Wolfe was waiting.
***
