Chapter 8 - Unmasking the Enemy
We emerged from the greenhouse exit into the rain-drenched gardens, using the thick hedge lines for cover. The storm was at its peak, thunder roaring overhead as rain poured down in heavy sheets.
Vane's remaining mercenaries were in utter chaos near the ruined front entrance, dragging wounded men back toward their armored SUVs.
"Vane is heading toward the east garage," Damon whispered near my ear, pointing through the darkness. "He thinks I have a helicopter stored there."
"He's trying to cut off your escape," I realized instantly.
"No," Damon smiled coldly. "He's trying to steal my flight path. Let's give him a proper send-off."
We flanked the garage structure, moving with silent, deadly coordination. Every time a mercenary stepped into our line of sight, Damon’s suppressed rifle barked twice, dropping them into the muddy rosebeds before they could even sound an alarm.
I covered his left flank, my heart racing with a strange, intoxicating rush of adrenaline. When a stray shooter popped out from behind a stone pillar, I raised my weapon and fired three precise shots into his vest, sending him crashing into the shrubbery.
Damon glanced back at me, raising an eyebrow in silent approval. "Remind me never to argument with you about coffee again."
"Just focus on Vane," I laughed softly, reloading my magazine.
We slipped into the high-ceilinged east garage. The space was filled with Damon's collection of rare sports cars, illuminated by emergency red lighting.
At the far end of the garage stood Ivan Vane, furiously yelling into a satellite phone while two of his personal bodyguards guarded the secondary exit.
"I don't care about the perimeter!" Vane shouted into the phone. "Bring the helicopter to the north paddock now! Volkov is—"
"Volkov is right behind you, Ivan," Damon’s deep voice boomed through the echoey garage.
Vane spun around, dropping his satellite phone. His two bodyguards instantly raised their weapons, but I was already moving.
I fired a burst across the concrete floor, ricocheting bullets off the tires of a vintage Ferrari. The sparks and deafening noise forced the two guards to dive for cover, separating them from Vane.
Damon stepped out from the shadows, dropping his rifle to the ground, pulling his long tactical blade from his boot.
"You came into my house," Damon said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "You threatened my people. And you tried to take what belongs to me."
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Vane drew his own heavy bowie knife, a vicious sneer distorting his scarred face. "Your empire was built on a lie, Volkov! The Romanov girl is a ghost, and you're a dying tyrant!"
"Let's see who dies tonight," Damon replied softly.
