Chapter 7 - THE GATES OF BLACKWOOD
The blast at the front gates sent plumes of black smoke into the torrential rain.
Through the breached perimeter, three matte-black armored personnel carriers surged up the winding asphalt driveway.
Heavy machine-gun fire instantly raked the granite facade of Blackwood Manor.
Century-old stone chipped away in violent bursts.
Stained glass windows from the 1890s exploded inward, showering the grand hallway with colored shards.
Callum scrambled out of his chair, instinctively lunging toward Rosalind.
"Rosalind! Get down!"
Beckett’s arm swung like an iron bar, clotheslining his father backward onto the Persian rug.
"Don't touch her," Beckett growled.
Beckett didn't dive for cover.
He reached beneath the long mahogany dining table and pulled a lever.
A concealed hydraulic rack rose from the floorboards, displaying rows of assault rifles, tactical vests, and drum magazines.
Gideon had already stripped off his suit jacket, pulling a Kevlar vest over his dress shirt.
"Perimeter protocol Omega," Gideon ordered calmly into his lapel microphone.
"Security teams one and three, funnel them into the courtyard crossfire."
"Team two, seal the wine cellar and the underground vaults."
Outside, forty private Blackwood guards, trained by former special forces, emerged from the tree lines.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the pine trees like deadly lightning.
Piers remained seated on the stone floor, his back against the grand fireplace.
His fingers flew across his tablet, ignoring the bullets whistling through the broken windows above his head.
"I have control of their vehicle telemetry," Piers said, his voice flat and analytical.
"Lead transport is an armored Ford F-550."
"Cutting their electronic fuel injection... now."
Two hundred yards down the driveway, the engine of the lead armored truck sputtered and died mid-charge.
The truck veered off the road, smashing into an ancient red oak.
Dante Sterling’s mercenaries piled out of the rear doors, firing wildly into the dark woods.
Rosalind stood in the center of the hall.
She did not flinch as a bullet embedded itself in the oak grandfather clock beside her.
Her midnight blue velvet dress caught the amber glow of the roaring hearth.
"Callum," Rosalind said.
Callum looked up from the floor, his face pale and covered in sweat.
"You wanted to protect this family," Rosalind said.
She pointed to the hydraulic weapons rack.
"There is a weapon."
"If you die tonight defending the sons you shamed, I will let them bury you in the family cemetery."
"If you hide behind this furniture..."
She looked at him with eyes as cold as deep space.
"...I will have Beckett shoot you where you crawl."
A flicker of the old Callum Voss—the ruthless streetfighter who had conquered the Chicago South Side in his youth—ignited in his eyes.
He didn't hesitate.
He rolled across the floor, grabbed a tactical carbine from the rack, and slammed a thirty-round magazine into the receiver.
"I will die for them," Callum breathed, racking the slide.
"I always would have."
Beside the chairs, Sloane Mercer was screaming like an animal.
She was thrashing against her zip-ties, trying to slide beneath the dining table.
"Dante!" she shrieked into the smoke.
"I'm in here! Don't shoot! I have the codes!"
Beckett walked over to her.
He didn't draw a gun.
He pulled a roll of heavy black tactical tape from his belt.
He tore off an eight-inch strip with his teeth and slapped it firmly across Sloane's screaming mouth.
"Shut up," Beckett whispered.
"You're making it hard to hear the targets."
Outside, Dante Sterling’s voice boomed through an amplified vehicle loudspeaker:
"Rosalind! Send the old man out!"
"Send Callum out on his knees, and I'll let you keep the house!"
"Refuse, and I will burn Blackwood Manor until not even the stones remain!"
Rosalind turned to Gideon.
"Is the Commission monitoring this?"
Gideon tapped his encrypted ear-mic.
"All five Chicago Capos are on an encrypted audio link."
"They are listening to Dante wage war on sovereign Voss soil."
"Good," Rosalind said.
She looked toward the front double doors, which were already groaning under the impact of a hydraulic battering ram.
"Open the doors, Beckett."
Beckett grinned.
May you like
A wide, terrifying, blood-soaked grin.
"With pleasure, Mom."
