Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Gallery
The west gallery was lined with priceless Renaissance paintings and floor-to-ceiling glass display cases containing Castellano porcelain and Venetian glass. Normally, it was a room of quiet elegance. Tonight, it was a killing floor.
Three tactical operatives dressed in matte-black gear crept out from the service stairwell, their weapons raised. They were professionals—hired guns from Detroit who thought they were hitting an empty mansion to snatch a safe combination.
They didn't expect a dog.
They certainly didn't expect a one-hundred-and-forty-pound war machine coming out of the shadows at forty miles per hour.
"Contact!" the lead operative hissed, raising his carbine.
Before he could pull the trigger, Bruno hit him like a freight train. The impact shattered a nearby glass display case, sending a million diamonds of crystal cascading across the marble floor. The operative went down instantly, his rifle flying from his hands as the massive dog clamped its jaws onto his reinforced tactical vest, lifting the grown man off the ground and tossing him aside like a ragdoll.
"Shoot the damn dog!" the second operative yelled, bringing his weapon around.
Bang. Bang.
Two silenced shots chipped the marble floor inches from Bruno’s paws, but the dog didn't even flinch. He spun, lunging at the second man with terrifying ferocity.
Before the shooter could fire a third round, a single, deafening gunshot echoed through the gallery.
Adrian Mercer stepped out from behind a marble pillar, smoke curling lazily from the barrel of his Sig Sauer. The second operative dropped his weapon, clutching a shattered shoulder, and collapsed against a mahogany credenza.
The third operative froze, dropping his rifle and slowly raising his hands as the cold steel barrel of Mercer’s pistol came to rest precisely between his eyes.
"Don't move," Mercer whispered. His voice didn't shake. It didn't even rise above a conversational murmur. "If you breathe too hard, I'll let the dog finish what he started."
From behind Mercer’s leg, little Emma peeked out, looking at the man cowering on the floor.
May you like
"You're making a mess," Emma said sternly. "My mommy just cleaned that floor."
The captured gunman stared in sheer, unadulterated horror at the three-year-old girl standing next to a bleeding mercenary and a demonic-looking Cane Corso, wondering if he had somehow died and slipped straight into the ninth circle of hell.
