Chapter 5 - The Confrontation at St. Albans
The garage erupted into chaos.
The lead guard pulled a heavy revolver from his holster, but before he could acquire his target, Frank Miller stepped through the service door, firing two precise rounds from his sidearm that struck the guard in the shoulder, sending him spinning into the concrete wall.
The second guard panicked, using the young boy as a human shield, pulling a knife and holding it against eight-year-old Julian’s throat.
"Back off!" the guard yelled, his eyes wild. "Back off or I cut the kid!"
Julian didn't cry. He stood rigid, his big dark eyes staring at Stallone with a mix of shock and faint, flickering hope. He had seen this man on television screens, in old photographs hidden under his mattress, but he had never believed his father was real.
"Daddy?" Julian whispered, his small voice trembling against the cold garage air.
Stallone stopped ten feet away. His body was completely calm, his breathing steady, though his eyes were locked onto the knife pressed against his son’s skin.
"Look at me, son," Stallone said softly, his deep voice carrying a strange, reassuring warmth that instantly calmed the frightened boy. "Don't look at the knife. Look at me."
Julian met his father's eyes, nodding slowly.
"You're a Stallone," Stallone said quietly, taking a single, slow step forward. "We don't break. Understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," Julian whispered.
Victoria backed away toward the driver's side of the armored vehicle, reaching into her coat for a small remote control. "You're too late, Sylvester! The entire estate trust was transferred to my offshore accounts twenty minutes ago! Even if you take the boy, you have nothing left!"
"I don't give a damn about the money, Victoria," Stallone said, his voice dropping an octave. "I came for my son."
In a split second, Stallone moved.
He didn't draw a gun. He reached down to his belt, pulling a heavy tactical throwing knife he had carried since his military days. With a blindingly fast whip of his wrist, he launched the blade through the air.
THUD.
The heavy steel hilt of the knife struck the guard squarely between the eyes with violent force.
The guard’s eyes rolled back into his head, his hands relaxing instantly as he collapsed backward onto the concrete floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Julian stumbled forward, free.
Stallone rushed in, scooping the small boy up into his massive arms, lifting him off the concrete floor, crushing him against his chest in a fierce, protective embrace.
Julian buried his face into Stallone’s leather jacket, his small body shaking with quiet, overwhelming sobs as eight years of isolation and fear washed away in his father's arms.
"I've got you, kiddo," Stallone choked out, his eyes shining with rare tears as he held his second son for the very first time. "I've got you. Nobody's ever taking you again."
Across the garage, Victoria pressed the button on her remote control.
The heavy steel garage security gate began to lower, locking the main exit. She scrambled into the driver's seat of the armored Suburban, slammed the vehicle into gear, and stomped on the accelerator, roaring toward the narrowing gap under the steel gate.
"Sylvester! She’s escaping!" Miller yelled, firing three shots at the reinforced bulletproof tires of the SUV, but the rounds bounced off harmlessly.
Stallone didn't panic. He carried Julian over to the corner where Miller was standing, setting the boy safely behind a concrete pillar.
"Stay with Frank, Julian," Stallone ordered gently.
He turned toward the center of the garage, where a heavy ten-ton forklift was parked near the loading dock, its diesel engine idling.
Stallone sprinted across the concrete, leaped into the driver’s seat of the forklift, slammed the heavy iron levers forward, and floored the accelerator.
The ten-ton machine roared forward with terrifying power.
Just as Victoria’s armored SUV reached the exit gate, Stallone rammed the massive steel forks of the heavy machine directly into the side passenger door of the vehicle.
CRASH!
The screech of tearing metal and shattering glass echoed through the garage like a bomb exploding.
The massive weight of the forklift flipped the heavy armored SUV onto its side, sending it sliding twenty feet across the wet concrete floor until it slammed into the reinforced concrete support pillar, coming to a dead stop in a cloud of steam and smoke.
The engine sputtered and died.
Silence fell over the garage, save for the hiss of radiator fluid and the quiet dripping of water from the ceiling.
Stallone climbed down from the forklift. He walked slowly toward the overturned SUV, his heavy boots crunching over shattered glass.
He reached the driver's side door, grabbing the bent steel handle with both hands. With a surge of immense, fury-fueled strength, he ripped the damaged door off its hinges, throwing it onto the concrete floor.
Inside, Victoria was trapped against the airbag, bleeding from a cut on her forehead, her expensive fur coat ruined, her breath coming in jagged, terrified gasps.
She looked up at Stallone standing above her, framed by the bright lights of the garage, looking like an unbeatable giant.
"Sylvester... please..." Victoria whimpered, reaching out a shaking hand, her voice filled with desperate, pathetic begging. "I... I did it for us... I wanted us to be powerful..."
Stallone reached into the front seat, pulling the velvet bag from her coat pocket. Inside were the master keys to the family trust and the forged Swiss medical files.
He looked down at the woman who had murdered his wife, terrorized his home, and stolen his children.
"You didn't do it for us, Victoria," Stallone said, his voice as cold as the winter storm outside. "You did it for yourself. And now you're going to rot in a concrete box for the rest of your life."
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Sirens echoed in the distance—the sound of federal tactical units finally arriving at the compound perimeter.
Stallone turned his back on her, walking away without looking back once.
