CHAPTER 14: THE BLOOD IN THE FOG
CHAPTER 14: THE BLOOD IN THE FOG
I fired twice.
The precise shots hit the lead operative directly in the chest plate, the force throwing him backward into the shattered glass of the terrace.
The second operative dropped to one knee, returning fire with a silenced submachine gun. The drywall near my head exploded into white dust, wood splinters spraying across my face.
From the kitchen, a sharp crack echoed.
James had bypassed the flank, his weapon neutralizing the second target before he could re-align his sights on the stairs.
The foyer fell into an absolute, suffocating silence, save for the sound of the rain dripping onto the marble.
I descended the stairs slowly, kicking the weapons away from the fallen operatives. I ripped the balaclava off the lead man’s face.
He was old. His hair gray, a jagged scar running across his throat. A vintage military tattoo was visible on his forearm: 10th Mountain Division. 1972.
"Victor didn't send his employees, Daniel," James said, stepping through the smoke.
"He sent his old platoon."
A sudden flare of light illuminated the lake outside.
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A single, blacked-out speed boat was idling near our pier. Standing on the deck was an old man in a military field coat, holding a heavy analog detonator in his hand.
Victor Vance.
