Chapter 6 - The Battle of Moretti Manor
The grand hallway of Moretti Manor was filled with thick, biting grey smoke and the smell of gunpowder.
Automatic gunfire shattered the priceless stained-glass windows overlooking the courtyard, sending showers of sharp glass cascading across the marble floor.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Three mercenaries in tactical gear and black ski masks breached the front foyer, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the dark hallway with tactical lights.
I crouched behind the heavy oak pillar near the grand staircase, my breath steady, my focus narrowed down to a needle point.
The lead mercenary stepped past the pillar.
I moved.
I stepped out from behind the wood, grabbed the barrel of his rifle, twisted it upward, and fired two quick rounds directly into his body armor, then a third point-blank shot right under his helmet line.
He dropped like a stone.
Before the second mercenary could swing his rifle toward me, Julian appeared at the top of the balcony above, firing his suppressed weapon with surgical precision. Two quick shots took down the second man, while the third mercenary scrambled backward toward the shattered front entrance.
"Clear!" Julian yelled from the balcony, reloading his magazine with a smooth, practiced motion. "Boss, there are two more teams moving through the east wing! They're trying to reach the basement stairs!"
"They know about the blueprints!" I shouted back, stepping over the fallen mercenary and taking his tactical radio from his vest. "Marcus Vance is directing them from the driveway!"
I clicked the captured radio button. "Marcus," I spoke into the mic, my voice cold and steady amidst the ringing gunshots.
A static rasp came through the speaker, followed by Marcus Vance's cruel, mocking laugh. "Julian! I hope you like the new decor in your foyer! You should have taken my advice and stayed quiet!"
"Your men are dying in my hallway, Marcus," I replied. "And you have three minutes before federal marshals arrive on this property."
"The marshals won't find anything except your corpse!" Marcus spat back. "Burn the east wing! Clear the basement!"
I dropped the radio, looked up at Julian, and gave him a single, hand signal—Flank and Eliminate.
Julian nodded, slipping silently along the upper balcony toward the east wing corridor, while I moved low through the shadow of the formal dining room.
The house I had lived in like a ghost for three years had suddenly transformed into an arena of death. Every room held memories of Isabella's laughter, of Arya playing hide-and-seek behind the long velvet drapes, of quiet Sunday mornings by the fire.
And now, evil men were defiling those memories with blood and smoke.
A violent rage—pure, raw, and blinding—surged through my veins, washing away three years of grief and despair.
I rounded the corner into the east wing hallway. Two mercenaries were setting a thermite explosive against the heavy iron door leading to the security basement.
"Hey," I called out softly.
Both men turned—
I fired four rapid shots. Both men crashed against the burning wall, their weapons clattering across the hardwood floor.
Before the smoke could clear, a heavy boot slammed into my back, sending me flying forward across the floor! My handgun slid out of my hand, disappearing beneath a burning sofa.
I rolled onto my back just in time to see Marcus Vance stepping out of the shadows, holding a heavy iron crowbar in his hands. His face was twisted in a grotesque, demonic sneer of pure hatred.
"End of the line, Moretti!" Marcus roared, swinging the iron bar down toward my head with crushing force!
I rolled sharply to the left. The iron bar smashed into the hardwood floor right beside my ear, sending sharp splinters flying into the air.
I kicked out with all my strength, my heavy boot striking Marcus directly in his knee!
CRACK!
Marcus screamed in agony as his kneecap dislocated, dropping the crowbar and stumbling backward against the burning wall.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbed him by his leather collar, and slammed him face-first into the stone fireplace mantel! Blood sprayed across the white marble.
"This is for Thomas Carter!" I roared, slamming him again.
"AAAGH!" Marcus choked out, his nose shattered, blood streaming down his face.
"And this..." I pulled him back, holding him by his throat, my green eyes staring straight into his terrified soul, "...is for my daughter Arya."
I drove my fist into his midsection with devastating force, dropping him to his knees on the burning rug.
Outside, the high-pitched, wailing sirens of dozens of federal marshal vehicles roared up the long drive, their red and blue lights flashing through the shattered stained-glass windows of the estate.
Julian ran down the hallway, his weapon lowered, three federal marshals in tactical armor right behind him.
"Building secure!" the lead marshal shouted, sweeping the room with his rifle before locking eyes on me. "Mr. Moretti! Lower your weapon!"
I didn't have a weapon. I stood over the broken, bleeding form of Marcus Vance, my hands covered in dark soot and blood, my breathing coming in deep, ragged gasps.
"He's all yours, Officer," I said, stepping back from the fallen enforcer. "His brother Victor is waiting for you at the River North tower."
The marshals immediately slammed Marcus onto his stomach, clicking heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists, while two medical technicians rushed into the hallway with stretchers.
Julian walked up to my side, handing me a clean cloth to wipe the blood from my hands.
"The federal prosecutor has the blueprints, Boss," Julian whispered softly. "Federal agents are raiding Victor Vance's penthouse right now. The state's attorney just signed forty arrest warrants for the entire city inspection board."
I didn't answer.
I turned away from the destruction in the east wing and walked slowly down the stone stairs into the quiet basement.
I reached the reinforced safe room door, knocked three times in our pre-arranged signal, and turned the heavy iron wheel lock.
The steel door swung open.
Sophia Carter stood inside, holding four-year-old Emma close to her chest, her eyes wide with fear and hope.
When she saw me standing in the doorway—alive, unbowed, and victorious—she let out a long, ragged sob and collapsed into tears of overwhelming relief.
Little Emma looked up at me, her big hazel eyes searching my face.
"Mr. Moretti?" the little girl whispered softly. "Did you beat the bad men?"
May you like
I knelt down on the cold concrete floor, held out my arms, and for the first time in three long, lonely years, I let a child wrap her small arms around my neck.
"Yes, Emma," I whispered, my voice breaking with pure, beautiful emotion as I held her close. "The bad men are gone. The sun is coming back."
