Chapter 4 - The Siege of Bennett Manor
The Bennett estate, which had been so clean, bright, and pastel-colored during the Easter afternoon, now looked like a darkened fortress under the moonlight.
The white party tents had been torn down, their canvas flapping in the cold wind. Four large, black SUVs were parked in the driveway, their engines idling. Six men in tactical vests, carrying semi-automatic rifles, patrolled the perimeter of the lawn.
Inside the mansion, Richard Bennett was pacing the length of his study, a glass of Scotch shaking in his hand. His mother, Beatrice, was frantically stuffing diamond necklaces and designer watches into a velvet pouch.
"We have to go, Richard!" Beatrice cried, her voice high and frantic. "The banks have frozen our personal accounts! My cards were declined at the private airfield! What is happening?"
"It’s that old bastard!" Richard roared, throwing his glass against the fireplace, where it shattered into a hundred sparkling shards. "He’s doing this! I don't know how, but he’s behind it!"
"He's a mechanic, Richard!" Beatrice screamed. "How does a mechanic hack a multi-million dollar corporation?"
Before Richard could answer, the glass windows of the study shattered.
Not from a bullet.
From a small, black canister that rolled across the hardwood floor, emitting a thick, blinding cloud of white smoke.
"Tear gas!" one of the hired security guards yelled from the hallway. "We're under attack!"
The mansion’s alarm system began to wail, a high-pitched siren that echoed through the empty rooms. The lights in the house went dark, leaving only the strobing red emergency lights to illuminate the chaos.
Outside, the six hired mercenaries deployed across the lawn, their weapons raised as they searched for a target.
They didn't find one.
From the shadows of the pine trees, Marcus moved like a wraith. With silent, non-lethal precision, he neutralized the guards one by one. A taser strike to the neck. A sweeping kick that shattered a knee. A chokehold that sent a two-hundred-pound mercenary to sleep in less than five seconds.
Inside the house, I walked through the front door.
I wasn't running. I wasn't hiding. I walked with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who owned the ground beneath his feet.
Two guards rushed down the main staircase, their weapons aimed at my chest. Before they could pull their triggers, Sarah’s voice echoed through the house’s integrated intercom system.
Sarah (via intercom): "To the security personnel of Vanguard Protection: We have hijacked your agency’s payroll server. Your security licenses have been flagged for immediate revocation by the state board, and your personal bank accounts are currently being audited. If you fire a single shot, you will be classified as active participants in a domestic terror cell. You have five seconds to drop your weapons."
The two guards looked at each other, their faces pale under their tactical helmets.
They looked at me.
They looked at the red laser dots that suddenly appeared on their chests—not from my weapon, but from Marcus’s sniper rifle through the glass skylight above.
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Slowly, carefully, they dropped their rifles onto the marble floor and raised their hands.
"Smart choice," I said, walking past them toward the master study.
