Six Hundred Hours of Silence

The freezing dawn light offered no warmth as the convoy of four black Escalades smashed through the decorative wrought-iron gates of the Hudson Valley estate, scattering crushed gravel across the manicured lawn. Doors flew open before the vehicles had even come to a complete stop, disgorging a dozen heavily armed men wearing black tactical gear and Russian military insignia.

They expected panic. They expected a disorganized household scrambling for cover.

Instead, they stepped into a killing zone.

From the second-story balcony, Daniel and three of Dominic’s most elite snipers opened fire with silenced carbines. Two tactical operatives dropped instantly before they could raise their weapons. The remaining men scrambled behind the stone fountains and luxury sedans parked in the circular drive, returning blind, furious fire that chewed chunks out of the mansion’s limestone pillars.

"Keep them pinned!" Daniel barked into his comms unit, dropping another attacker with a clean shot through the shoulder.

From the center of the driveway, stepping out through the heavy front double doors with unhurried grace, was Dominic Vale.

He wore no tactical vest. He wore no helmet. Just his blood-stained white shirt, dark trousers, and a heavy wool coat blowing in the bitter morning wind. In his right hand, he dragged a customized Benelli M4 tactical shotgun along the stone steps, the steel scraping against the ground with a rhythmic, grating shriek.

The lead Russian operative—a scarred brute known in the Bratva underworld as Viktor "The Butcher"—pushed out from behind an overturned SUV, leveling an assault rifle straight at Dominic's chest.

"Vale!" Viktor roared over the gunfire. "Your empire is finished! Cross sold you out! Drop the gun and crawl!"