Chapter 7 - The Inner Circle Cleansing
Up in the grand foyer, the heavy oak double doors shuddered under a massive, rhythmic impact.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Hydraulic breaching rams.
From behind the reinforced glass and solid oak panels, the sound echoed like thunder through the limestone hallways. The smart-home security system’s lights blinked amber, then flickered green as Dominic’s remote override disengaged the outer locks.
“They’re through the exterior threshold,” Dominic’s voice crackled over the intercom speaker in the hallway. “They’re stepping into the marble hall right now, boss.”
Vincent stood at the far end of the grand hall, standing tall and steady against his cane, flanked by six of his most trusted, heavily armed security veterans.
The heavy double doors swung inward with a loud crash.
A dozen men in black tactical gear, armed with submachine guns and wearing night-vision goggles, poured into the foyer. They moved with swift, aggressive efficiency, spreading out to cover the staircases and gallery landings.
The lead operative—a hulking brute with a scarred jaw and a heavy mercenary rig—raised his weapon, scanning the empty hall before his eyes locked onto Vincent standing alone at the far end.
“Vincent Callahan,” the mercenary barked, his voice distorted through a tactical comms mask. “Hands where we can see them. Drop the cane. The house belongs to Vanguard now.”
Vincent didn't raise his hands. He didn't drop his cane.
Instead, he raised his left hand and slowly snapped his fingers.
Click.
From the ceiling above, the massive iron shutters—weighing three tons each—dropped simultaneously across every doorway, window, and exit of the grand hall with the deafening roar of a guillotine.
The mercenaries spun around in a panic, their flashlights sweeping frantically toward the doors, only to find solid steel plates three inches thick blocking every avenue of escape.
“What the hell is this?!” the lead mercenary roared, turning back toward Vincent. “Open this door or we light this room up!”
“You’re in a room with no exits, gentlemen,” Vincent said, his voice echoing cleanly off the marble pillars. “And you’re standing on a reinforced steel floor that is currently being flooded with high-pressure knockout gas from the ventilation system.”
Before the mercenaries could raise their weapons to fire, a soft, hissing sound filled the corners of the grand hall. Thick, white, odorless gas began billowing out from the decorative brass ceiling vents, cascading downward in heavy, swirling waves.
The lead mercenary shouted an obscenity through his mask, but within three seconds, his legs buckled. He dropped heavily to his knees, his submachine gun clattering against the marble floor.
Behind him, one by one, the tactical operatives swayed, staggered, and collapsed like felled trees until the entire squad lay motionless across the polished stone.
Dominic stepped out from the side corridor, pulling down a respirator mask and walking over to kick the lead mercenary’s boot to ensure he was completely out.
“Clean sweep, boss,” Dominic grinned, looking up at Vincent. “Not a single shot fired.”
May you like
Vincent walked slowly across the room, stopping beside the unconscious mercenary leader. He looked down at the tactical patch on the man’s shoulder—a silver wolf head intertwined with a Swiss cross. Marcus’s private mark.
“Drag them down to the wine cellar,” Vincent commanded coldly. “Put them in cells four through twelve. And make sure Adrien has front-row seats to watch his army arrive.”
