Chapter 9 - The Reckoning
Julian Vance stood on the gravel driveway of the burning estate, laughing into his satellite phone as his men watched the flames consume the west wing.
"Tell the council Vale is dead," Vance shouted over the roar of the fire. "The jet was a decoy, his house is a furnace, and his little bird is—"
A shadow detached itself from the smoke behind the burning garage.
The crack of a rifle silenced Vance's phone call. The mercenary standing to Vance's left dropped instantly, a clean shot through the chest.
Panic erupted among the remaining eight men. "Spread out! Find him!"
Adrian Vale walked out of the thick smoke, holding a tactical shotgun he had retrieved from the lodge gun locker. Behind him, coughing but entirely unharmed, young Eli Carter stumbled toward the treeline, clutching a fire extinguisher Adrian had used to blast him out of the cellar.
"You're in my yard, Julian," Adrian's voice boomed over the crackle of burning timbers.
Vance spun around, terror draining the color from his face. "Vale? How the hell are you alive?"
"You made three mistakes tonight," Adrian said, walking forward with steady, measured steps, racking the shotgun slide with a brutal metallic click. "First, you thought Owen Rourke was loyal to anyone but the highest bidder. Second, you brought fire to a house made of stone."
Adrian fired. Another mercenary fell.
The remaining guards scrambled for cover behind their SUVs, but Adrian moved with terrifying efficiency, using the shifting shadows and familiar terrain to pick them off one by one. He had spent his twenties surviving gang wars in South Brooklyn; Vance's hired guns were amateurs compared to the ghosts Adrian had buried in his past.
Within four minutes, the driveway went dead silent, save for the sirens of approaching state police cruisers echoing in the distance.
Vance was on his knees behind a shattered Mercedes, clutching a wounded leg, staring up at Adrian’s towering silhouette through the red glow of the fire.
"Wait... Adrian, please," Vance whimpered. "We can make a deal. Fifty percent of the docks. A hundred percent!"
Adrian stood over him, the barrel of his sidearm smoking.
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"And your third mistake, Julian," Adrian whispered cold enough to freeze the flames, "was coming anywhere near my wife and child."
A single shot rang out, swallowed by the roar of the collapsing roof.
