Chapter 5 - The Siege at the Ridge
The rain started around ten o’clock, a cold, slate-gray coastal drizzle that swept in off Boston Harbor, slicking the winding private drive that led up to the Callahan ridge.
Inside the central security monitoring room on the ground floor, three massive high-definition monitors cast a pale blue glow across the banks of computer equipment and steel-reinforced walls.
Dominic Moretti stood before the main console, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he activated the estate’s automated defense protocols.
“They’re at the outer gate, boss,” Dominic reported without taking his eyes off the thermal imaging feed. “Three black SUVs. No transponders. No plates. They thought they could trip the magnetic sensor and slip past the forest line, but our motion grids caught them thirty seconds before the tree line.”
Vincent stood behind Dominic, leaning heavily on his black cane. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his silver hair catching the amber light of the corridor. He looked like an old war general inspecting a battlefield from a hill.
“How many?” Vincent asked.
“At least twelve armed men in each vehicle,” Dominic replied, bringing up a side camera feed showing shadowy figures in tactical gear stepping out into the pouring rain, carrying suppressed submachine guns and heavy breaching tools. “They’re coordinated. Professional. South Boston enforcers backed by private contractor muscle. Adrien must have sent an automated ping when we didn't meet their midnight deadline.”
“They came for the paperwork and the house,” Vincent said quietly. “They didn't expect the lights to be on.”
“They won't get past the limestone curtain,” Dominic grinned grimly, tapping a red toggle switch on the console. “The perimeter shutters are locked down. Once they try to force the front glass, the pneumatic steel plates drop into place. It’ll take a rocket-propelled grenade to crack the foyer.”
“No,” Vincent said sharply.
Dominic paused, his finger hovering over the switch. “Boss?”
“Don't drop the steel shutters yet,” Vincent instructed, his eyes narrowing as he watched the tactical squad fan out across the grand front lawn, moving with practiced military precision toward the massive double doors of the main entrance. “Let them think the house is vulnerable. Let them walk right into the foyer.”
“Vincent, that’s suicide if they manage to breach—!”
“They won't breach past the foyer, Dominic,” Vincent interrupted, a dark, dangerous glint in his eye. “This is my house. I built the floorboards they’re walking on. I want every single one of them inside the marble hall before we close the trap.”
Dominic stared at his cousin for a second, then let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Got it. Setting the interior diversion grid. When they step through those double doors, the exits seal behind them like a jaw closing on a rat.”
“Do it,” Vincent said, turning away from the monitors. “And make sure Hannah and Molly are secure in the panic suite beneath the west wing.”
“Already done, boss. Two of my best men are stationed inside with them, and the reinforced bulkhead is locked from the inside.”
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Vincent nodded once, adjusted his grip on his cane, and walked out of the security room into the dimly lit, wood-paneled corridors of his ancestral home.
The storm outside howled against the tall windows, rattling the antique glass frames. But inside, the mansion was breathlessly quiet, waiting for the wolves to enter the den.
