Chapter 4 - The Siege of Birchwood Manor
Jasper’s glass dropped from his hand, shattering on the hardwood floor, splashing amber liquid across the polished wood. He stumbled backward, his face turning an ashen white as he scrambled toward the billiard room. "Kyle! Kyle, get out here! He’s got a gun!"
Ethan didn't run. He walked up the stairs with a measured, terrifying rhythm. Every step was deliberate, an inevitable march of doom. By the time he reached the second-floor landing, Kyle had burst out of the room, holding a compact silver pistol he kept in his waistband.
Kyle was the younger brother, brasher, filled with the unearned confidence of his family's immunity. He raised the gun, his hand shaking slightly. "I don't know how you got past the gates, you piece of garbage, but you’re dead. You think you can come into our house and—"
Ethan didn't let him finish the sentence. He moved with a speed that defied human reaction time. He dodged slightly to the left as Kyle fired a wild, panicked shot that lodged into the drywall. Before Kyle could adjust his aim, Ethan closed the gap, his left hand snapping Kyle’s wrist back with a sickening crack. The silver pistol clattered to the floor.
Kyle screamed, a high-pitched, pathetic sound, but Ethan silenced him by driving the butt of his weapon violently into his nose. Bone crushed under the impact, and Kyle collapsed to his knees, clutching his face as blood poured between his fingers.
Jasper was on his hands and knees, trying to crawl away toward the master suite. Ethan stepped over the groaning Kyle and brought his boot down hard on Jasper’s ankle, pinning him to the floor.
"Please! Ethan, please! It was a mistake! We were just teaching the kid a lesson, he was being disrespectful!" Jasper pleaded, his face pressed against the floor, tears mixing with the spilled liquor.
"Teaching him a lesson?" Ethan asked, his voice completely flat, devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "Three grown men pinning an eight-year-old child to a concrete driveway while his grandfather smashes his head. Is that the lesson, Jasper?"
"It was the old man! It was Arthur! He wanted it done!" Jasper cried out, betraying his father in a heartbeat to save his own skin. "He said the boy was soft! Like you! He wanted to make him a Vance!"
Ethan looked down at them with disgust. These were the men who thought they ruled the city. Stripped of their money, their lawyers, and their security guards, they were nothing but cowards whimpering in the dark.
He grabbed Jasper by the collar of his expensive shirt and dragged him across the floor, throwing him into the billiard room next to his bleeding brother. Ethan pulled zip-ties from his tactical rig, binding their wrists and ankles with professional efficiency, ignoring their begs and groans.
"Stay here," Ethan said, looking down at them. "The main event is downstairs."
He turned on his heel and walked back to the ground floor, toward the heavy mahogany doors of the grand study. He didn't knock. He turned the handle and pushed the doors open.
Arthur Vance sat in a high-backed leather chair behind a massive oak desk. A green shaded banker's lamp illuminated his wrinkled, aristocratic face. He was holding a glass of vintage port, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos unfolding in his house. In fact, he looked amused.
"I wondered when you'd show up, Ethan," Arthur said, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Though I must admit, the fireworks outside were a surprise. I didn't think a low-rent architect had it in him to hire professional mercenaries."
"I didn't hire anyone, Arthur," Ethan said, closing the doors behind him, cutting off the sounds of the brothers' whimpering upstairs. "I am the professional."
Arthur laughed, a dry, raspy sound that echoed off the book-lined walls. "Oh, please. Don't play the tough guy with me. You're a nobody. A charity case my daughter brought home because she wanted to rebel against me. You think because you killed a few low-level guards you can intimidate me? I own the chief of police. I own the mayor. By tomorrow morning, you'll be sitting in a maximum-security cell, and your little boy will be a ward of my estate. I will remake him in my image. A true Vance. Strong. Not pathetic like you."
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Ethan walked slowly toward the desk, placing his suppressed pistol flat on the dark wood. He leaned forward, resting his palms on the desk, bringing his face inches from the old man's.
"You really don't know who I am, do you?" Ethan whispered.
