Chapter 1 - The Breach at the Iron Gates
The roar of twin-turbo V8 engines rattled the double-glazed glass of the dining room windows.
My house was a fortress. Ten-foot stone perimeter walls, reinforced tungsten steel gates, armed sentries rotating every two hours on thermal cameras. Nobody pulled up unannounced. Nobody breached the outer perimeter unless my men were already dead.
"Boss! Sector four is dark! They used an EMP at the gatehouse!" Marco’s voice screamed through the encrypted radio clipped to my tactical vest.
Gunfire erupted.
Not the rhythmic, disciplined tap-fire of my perimeter guards, but the deafening, continuous rattle of suppressed submachine guns. Hollow-point rounds chewed through the front portico, shredding the century-old oak doors into splintered kindling.
Elena shrank back, throwing her arms over the four boys. The table shook. The porcelain plates clattered.
"Alejandro, please," Elena sobbed, her fingernails digging into the boys' blue cotton shirts. "Don't let them take the boys. God, please, kill me if you must, but don't let them take Sofia's babies!"
I didn't blink. I didn't hesitate. In my world, hesitation was an open casket.
"Down," I barked. The sheer command in my voice cut through the chaos. "Elena, pull the lever behind the sideboard. Now!"
She knew the house almost as well as I did. Trembling, she shoved the antique buffet aside and slammed down a brass lever hidden inside the wall paneling. Behind the heavy velvet drapes, a four-inch solid steel blast door hummed to life, sliding across the primary entrance with a pneumatic hiss.
I drew my customized Kimber 1911 from beneath my armpit, chambering a .45 round with a crisp, metallic snap.
The smallest boy—the one Elena had called Mateo—didn't cry. He looked up at the weapon in my hand, his wide hazel eyes completely unblinking. It was the exact look my father used to give me before a storm hit the docks.
"Are you the monster?" Mateo asked quietly, his little voice cutting through the distant sound of shattering glass.
"No, kid," I whispered, stepping between the four boys and the dining room door. "I'm the monster that eats the monsters."
A flashbang detonated in the foyer. The shockwave rattled my teeth. Footsteps—heavy, calculated, military-grade combat boots—raced down the grand marble hallway.
"Clear the west wing! Grab the packages alive! The Don wants the children breathing!" a harsh voice shouted through a tactical respirator.
They weren't here for me.
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They were here for my blood.
***