Chapter 6 - THE COURTYARD AMBUSH
-6
The North Courtyard was designed like a medieval kill zone—open stone paving flanked by high brick walls on either side, devoid of cover, illuminated by overhead floodlights that could be toggled blind in an instant.
Through the monitor, I watched Vincent and his six-man strike team step out into the center of the yard. They moved defensively, rifles raised, scanning the dark windows of the main mansion with the cautious tension of men walking through a minefield.
"They suspect a trap," Paulie observed, watching the thermal feeds closely. "They're slowing down."
"It doesn't matter," I said, my eyes locked on Vincent’s face. "They've already stepped past the threshold."
I reached out and hit the master grid switch, killing every exterior floodlight on the property in a fraction of a second.
On screen, the courtyard plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
A chorus of curses echoed from the monitors as Vincent’s men stumbled, their tactical flashlights snapping on simultaneously, cutting bright, chaotic beams through the rainy night air.
"Ambush! Spread out!" Vincent’s panicked voice crackled over our intercepted radio frequency.
Too late.
From the shadows of the surrounding balconies and stone columns, twelve of my elite enforcers opened fire with suppressed automatic weapons. The coordinated crossfire was devastating, precise, and completely overwhelming.
Two of the Moretti hitmen dropped instantly before they could even raise their barrels. The remaining four scattered wildly toward the fountain in the center of the courtyard, firing blindly into the dark.
"Paulie, secure the perimeter exits," I ordered, turning away from the monitors. "I'm going outside."
"Boss, wait—it's too dangerous to expose yourself—"
"I told you, Paulie," I interrupted, drawing the SIG Sauer from my holster and pulling back the slide. "My family is in this house. And I am going to deal with Vincent personally."
I strode out of the basement command center, taking the service stairs two at a time, bursting out through the heavy glass doors leading directly into the North Courtyard.
The cold rain hit my face like needles. The air smelled thick with cordite, wet stone, and fresh blood. Gunfire crackled around me as two of Vincent’s men attempted to return fire toward the second-floor balcony, only to be neutralized by a rapid burst from Paulie's sniper detail.
In the center of the courtyard, kneeling beside the shattered marble fountain with a bleeding shoulder and a smoking submachine gun clutched in his trembling hands, was Vincent Russo.
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He looked up as my boots crunched against the wet gravel.
His face was pale, streaked with mud and blood, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror as he realized who was standing over him.
