Chapter 7 - The Trial by Fire
The rain began to fall in sheets around midnight, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my New Ashford sanctuary.
In the second-floor master suite, Clara was awake, propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her color was slowly returning, though the dark bruises around her eyes looked like charcoal marks against her pale skin. She was sipping hot chamomile tea from a ceramic mug, her gaze fixed on the dense forest beyond the perimeter fence.
I entered quietly, carrying an extra blanket.
“You should be resting, Clara,” I said softly, draping the wool over her legs.
“I can't sleep,” she said, her voice stronger than before, though still carrying the rough scrape of her intubation. “I can feel him, Adrian. My father. He won't stop until he’s dead or locked away. He’s lived his whole life believing the world belongs to him.”
I sat on the edge of the mattress, taking her hand.
“He’s already on his way,” I told her.
Clara’s hand tightened in mine, but she didn't flinch. There was no terror in her eyes anymore. Only a cold, grim resignation.
“How many?” she asked.
“Mason brought eleven men. Two armored SUVs. They breached our secondary outer gate three minutes ago. They think they cut our communications.”
Clara looked at me, her hazel eyes reflecting the dim bedside lamp. “What are you going to do?”
“What should have been done twenty years ago,” I replied.
I stood up, kissed her forehead, and walked to the door.
“Adrian,” Clara called out.
I turned back.
“Make sure Arthur sees your face,” she said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “Let him know who took his empire.”
“I will.”
I went down to the main courtyard.
The rain was deafening, drum-rolling against the stone pavers. The perimeter floodlights had been intentionally cut, plunging the front courtyard of the mansion into near-total darkness, illuminated only by occasional flashes of jagged lightning.
The heavy wrought-iron main gates had been blown open with C4. Two black Suburbans roared up the winding gravel driveway, their tires throwing wet gravel, stopping fifty feet from the front entrance of the main house.
Doors flew open.
Eleven heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured out, carbines raised, sweeping the terrace. Mason Sterling stepped out from the passenger seat of the first truck, a shotgun clutched in his hands.
And from the rear door of the second vehicle emerged Arthur Sterling.
He was wearing an oilskin trench coat, drenched in rain, the Colt .45 clutched in his right hand.
“Adrian!” Arthur shouted into the storm, his voice carrying over the thunder. “Bring my daughter out! Bring her out, or we burn this place to the ground with you inside it!”
A single halogen spotlight on the second-story roof suddenly flared to life.
The beam cut through the driving rain, blinding Arthur and his men. In the center of the terrace, standing alone under the shelter of the stone portico, was me.
I wore no armor. I held no weapon. I stood with my hands clasped in front of me, watching them like an observer studying specimens under glass.
“You’re too late, Arthur,” I said, my voice projected through the estate’s acoustic PA system, reverberating off the stone walls. “Trevor’s body has already been recovered from your study. The local coroner has officially ruled his death a homicide. You are no longer just an extortionist or a corrupt businessman. You are a fratricidal murderer.”
Mason flinched, looking up at the speaker. “How... how did you know about Trevor?”
“Because Mason,” I said, shifting my gaze to Clara’s eighth brother, “your lead mercenary—the man standing three feet to your left—has been an Apex contractor for five years.”
Mason spun around in horror.
Before he could raise his shotgun, the mercenary beside him lunged, his combat knife flashing in the glare of the spotlight. In one fluid, brutal movement, the operative slashed Mason’s forearm, sending the shotgun clattering to the wet stone, then drove a heavy combat boot into Mason’s sternum.
Mason crashed onto his back in a puddle of muddy rainwater, gasping for air.
Simultaneously, the remaining ten mercenaries didn't raise their rifles toward the house.
They turned inward.
Ten laser sights snapped onto Arthur Sterling’s chest, dotting his soaked trench coat with ten bright crimson points of light.
Arthur froze. His jaw dropped. The Colt .45 hung limp in his trembling fingers.
“What... what is this?” Arthur stammered, looking around in utter disorientation. “I paid you! I paid you two million dollars in cash from my personal vault!”
“The money was transferred into an Apex escrow account three hours ago, Mr. Sterling,” the lead contractor said calmly, his rifle leveled at Arthur’s head. “Thank you for your business.”
From the shadows of the estate grounds, forty additional tactical operatives—Keller’s elite team—emerged like ghosts from the tree line, rifles drawn, completely encircling the courtyard.
Arthur stood alone in the rain, surrounded by fifty barrels, ten red laser dots dancing across his heart.
I walked down the stone steps, descending into the rain until I was five feet from the broken old man.
“Drop the gun, Arthur,” I commanded.
Arthur looked at me, his eyes wild with the manic despair of a gambler who had bet his soul and lost.
“She was mine,” Arthur wept, his voice cracking against the wind. “Clara was my blood! I built an empire for my sons! Everything I did was to keep the Sterling name alive!”
“Your empire was built on extortion, bribery, and violence,” I replied, stepping closer until I could smell the stale Scotch on his breath. “And tonight, your Sterling name dies.”
Arthur’s face twisted in one last, pathetic spasm of hatred. He raised the Colt, pointing it directly between my eyes.
“Then we die together!” he screamed.
He never pulled the hammer.
A single suppressed round cracked from the roofline.
The bullet tore clean through Arthur’s right shoulder. The impact spun him around, the revolver flying from his shattered grip and landing with a dull splash in the mud. Arthur collapsed to his knees, clutching his shoulder, screaming in agony as blood seeped through his fingers into the pouring rain.
Keller stepped forward, kicked the revolver fifty feet away, and shoved Arthur’s face into the mud with the sole of his boot.
“Clear,” Keller said into his radio.
I stood over Arthur Sterling as the rain washed over us.
“Keller,” I said.
“Sir?”
May you like
“Call the FBI. Tell them the last two Sterlings are ready for pickup.”
***
