Chapter 8 - THE SIEGE OF LONG ISLAND
By 2:00 PM, the Long Island estate had transformed into an armed fortress.
Heavy iron gates slammed shut, laser tripwires activated along the perimeter walls, and six armed security specialists in tactical gear took up defensive positions around the main perimeter.
Inside the master wing, Hannah sat rocking Leo, unaware of the approaching storm.
I had briefed her briefly before racing out the door to downtown Manhattan, telling her to stay locked inside the suite under armed guard. But professional mercenaries don't care about warnings; they care about objectives.
A blacked-out van bearing false utility company plates plowed straight through the outer security gate, crashing onto the gravel driveway. Four heavily armed men wearing ski masks leaped out of the back, automatic rifles raised.
They had underestimated my security detail.
Before the first mercenary could reach the front steps, the estate’s automated defense turrets and patrolling guards opened fire. A fierce, deafening firefight erupted across the manicured lawns. Glass shattered, bullets ricocheted off stone pillars, and the roar of automatic gunfire echoed across the Atlantic coastline.
Upstairs in the master suite, the sound of gunfire shook the French windows.
Hannah gasped, clutching Leo tightly to her chest as the baby began to cry at the loud noise. The two armed guards stationed outside her door immediately drew their weapons, barricading the heavy oak entryway.
"Stay back from the windows, ma'am!" the lead guard shouted over the sound of gunfire outside. "We’ve got you covered!"
Through the intercom system connected to my phone, I listened to the chaotic sounds of the siege while my Maybach tore down the highway at one hundred and twenty miles per hour, racing back from Manhattan.
"Hold the line!" I roared through the speakerphone into the guard's earpiece. "Do not let them breach the master wing! I am five minutes away!"
The mercenaries threw a smoke grenade into the grand foyer, attempting to storm the main staircase. But my men held firm, returning fire with lethal precision. Two of the attackers dropped instantly, while the remaining two retreated toward the driveway under heavy suppressive fire.
By the time my car drifted violently onto the gravel driveway, slamming to a halt beside the smoking wreckage of the van, the gunfight was over.
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Two mercenaries were cuffed on the grass, bleeding from gunshot wounds, while my security team secured the perimeter.
I kicked open the car door, drew my weapon, and sprinted up the front steps, my heart pounding in my throat.
