Two years after a sniper’s bullet stole the use of my legs, everyone inside my estate had learned to fear me—nurses quit, therapists fled, and even armed men lowered their eyes when I entered a room. Then a new maid named Emma walked into my private wing, looked straight at the man everyone called a monster, and said, “Do you want me to stop working? Because if I stop, I don’t get paid.”

The heavy double doors of the library were blown inward off their hinges by a shotgun blast.

Smoke and dust poured into the room as three heavily armed men in black tactical gear stepped through the doorway, their assault rifles raised, scanning the room.

"Vance!" the lead mercenary barked in a heavy Russian accent. "We know you're in here, cripple! Come out and make it easy!"

I was lying low behind the overturned leather sofa near the desk, my body braced against the frame.

I didn't need legs to aim. I had trained five hours a day for ten years in combat shooting.

I leaned out from behind the sofa, aligning the night-sights of the pistol with the lead shooter's throat.

BANG! BANG!

Two heavy .45 rounds tore through the lead man's neck and chest. He dropped instantly, his rifle clattering onto the hardwood floor.

The other two mercenaries yelled, spraying automatic fire toward the sofa, wood splinters flying through the air like shrapnel.

I rolled onto my back, firing three rapid shots through the bottom fabric of the sofa, hitting the second shooter in his thigh and lower abdomen. He collapsed, screaming in pain.

The third mercenary sprinted around the edge of the sofa, raising his shotgun directly at my head.

"Die, you bastard!" he roared.

Before he could pull the trigger, a heavy bronze statue of a horse flew through the air, striking the mercenary flush across the side of his face with a sickening CRUNCH.

The man staggered backward, dazed, blood pouring from his broken jaw.

I didn't hesitate. I raised my pistol and put two rounds straight through his chest.

The room went dead silent, save for the crackle of fire and the blaring security alarms outside.

I looked over toward the desk.

Emma was standing there, her face covered in drywall dust, her chest heaving violently, her hands still raised in the follow-through of having thrown the heavy bronze statue off my desk. She had saved my life.

I looked at her in absolute awe. "I told you to stay beneath the desk."

"You... you were going to get shot," she sobbed, wiping blood from a small scratch on her cheek. "I'm not... I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

Before I could speak, Luke and four of our tactical guards rushed into the library, their weapons raised, clearing the corners.

When Luke saw the three dead mercenaries on the floor, then saw me sitting on the carpet holding a smoking gun beside Emma, he let out a long, low whistle.

"Perimeter is clear, Boss," Luke said, lowering his rifle. "We wiped out the rest of Malikov's squad in the courtyard. But we found something on their lead guy's body."

Luke walked over and handed me a encrypted satellite phone recovered from the mercenary captain.

The screen was still active, displaying an open text conversation with an internal contact inside my own organization.

The message read: Vance is in the library. His legs are useless. Easy target. Do it now.

My eyes turned to absolute ice.