Chapter 8 - The Plymouth Raid
Marcus Thorne’s estate in Plymouth was an old, sprawling mansion surrounded by high stone walls and heavy security patrols. Thorne believed his age, wealth, and deep political connections made him untouchable.
He was wrong.
At two in the morning, three black SUVs blew through the front gates of the estate, smashing the heavy wrought-iron doors off their hinges. Syndicate enforcers spilled onto the manicured lawn, neutralizing Thorne’s private security guards with ruthless efficiency.
Damien walked through the shattered front entrance of the mansion, a heavy shotgun held loosely in his right hand. He moved like a storm incarnate, taking down two armed guards who tried to block the grand staircase without even slowing his stride.
He kicked open the heavy oak doors of Thorne’s second-floor study.
Marcus Thorne was standing behind his mahogany desk, frantically trying to load a revolver with trembling hands. When he saw Damien, the gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Damien," Thorne gasped, clutching his chest. "You've lost your mind! You can't attack me! I am a founder of this Syndicate!"
"You are a dead man," Damien said, racking the shotgun slide with a deafening sound.
"Whatever Reyes told you, he lied!" Thorne yelled, backing against the bookshelf. "He was the one embezzling! He wanted the girl dead because she was auditing the Rotterdam books!"
"You bought the thallium, Marcus," Damien said, walking up to the desk. He reached across and grabbed Thorne by the collar, dragging the older man over the wood until their faces were inches apart. "You put poison in her body. You tried to murder my child before it was even born."
Thorne’s eyes went wide with realization. "Your... your child? That girl... she’s carrying your child?"
"She was carrying my heir," Damien corrected him, his grip tightening until Thorne choked. "And you made her suffer for four months."
Damien didn't shoot him. That would have been too quick, too merciful. He dropped Thorne to the floor and signaled to his men who entered the room carrying heavy duffel bags.
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"Strip this house," Damien ordered. "Take every ledger, every hard drive, every coin. Burn the rest. And leave Thorne in his vault. Let him see how long he lasts without air."
Thorne’s screams echoed through the burning mansion as Damien walked back out into the night, the flames reflecting off the polished black leather of his coat.
