Chapter 10 - The Confrontation
The solid oak front door splintered inward with a deafening crash on the third strike.
Three men in black tactical gear and balaclavas burst through the threshold, weapons raised. But before they could clear the foyer, I stepped from behind the stone hearth, firing two double-taps into the center mass of the lead operative's body armor.
The kinetic force slammed him backward into his comrades, throwing their breach into chaotic disarray.
"Down! Down!" one yelled, scrambling for cover behind the overturned sofa.
From outside, through the shattered entrance, a man stepped out of the howling blizzard into the glow of the dying fire.
Richard Vance.
He wasn't wearing a coat. His hair was wild, plastered to his forehead with melting snow, his eyes manic and bloodshot. In his right hand, he held a chrome-plated revolver.
"Anna!" he screamed, his voice cracking with madness. "Bring my son out here! You have ten seconds, or I burn this house to the ground with all of you inside!"
"She’s not coming down, Richard!" I called out from behind the heavy stone fireplace pillar, keeping my weapon trained on the hallway. "And you have less than two minutes before the New York State Police tactical unit reaches this property!"
"They aren't coming, Martin!" Richard laughed, a ragged, unhinged sound. "The local sheriff is on my payroll! The roads are closed for 'downed power lines'! No one is coming to save you!"
"You're wrong, Vance," a booming voice echoed from outside through the storm.
Suddenly, blinding, five-million-candlepower searchlights pierced through the falling snow, illuminating the entire front of the cottage like high noon. The thunderous roar of twin helicopter rotors shook the foundations of the house as two black Bell 429 helicopters hovered fifty feet above the lawn, kicking up a blinding cyclone of snow.
Dozens of red laser sights swept across the foyer, painting Richard Vance's chest and the bodies of his remaining mercenaries in crimson dots.
Over a mounted loudspeaker, a commanding voice boomed: *"This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation Hostage Rescue Team and New York State Police Special Operations! Drop your weapons and get on the ground immediately! Drop your weapons!"*
Richard stared in horror at the red dots dancing across his chest. He spun around, seeing a dozen heavily armed federal tactical operators advancing through the snow, accompanied by New York State Police cruisers that had bypassed the private road through an old logging trail David had mapped for them hours earlier.
The mercenaries immediately dropped their rifles and hit the hardwood floor with their hands behind their heads.
Richard stood frozen, his gun trembling in his grip. He looked up the stairs, knowing his prize, his salvation, his fifty million dollars was just twenty feet away.
"Put the gun down, Richard," I said, stepping into the open, my weapon lowered to my side. "It's over."
His face twisted in agony and absolute defeat. The revolver slipped from his numb, frozen fingers and clattered against the stone floor. Two federal agents swarmed him, slamming him face-first into the floor and wrenching his arms behind his back in zip-ties.
As they hauled him to his feet, Richard locked eyes with me. His mouth was bloody, his empire completely shattered.
May you like
"You ruined me," he hissed.
"You ruined yourself," I replied calmly. "Take him away."
