Chapter 7 - The Siege of the Cross Estate
The night air shattered into a cacophony of violence as the outer gates of the estate blew inward with a deafening roar of C4 explosives. Shrapnel rained down across the manicured lawns, and the heavy iron barriers crumpled like tin foil under the assault.
Through the smoke and falling debris, waves of masked Syndicate operatives poured onto the property, automatic weapons raised, moving with tactical precision toward the main house.
They expected panic. They expected confusion.
Instead, they walked straight into a meat grinder.
From the reinforced sniper nests in the turrets, Cross’s elite marksmen opened fire with suppressive precision. Shadows dropped from the grass line before they even crossed the halfway point of the lawn. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like a swarm of angry fireflies, painting the marble pillars of the mansion in flickering shades of crimson and gold.
Inside the command center, Damian watched the feed with cold detachment. "Marcus, take the north flank. Cut off their retreat through the gardens. I want Viktor’s inner circle pinned against the fountain."
"On it," Marcus barked, grabbing his rifle off the rack and bolting out the heavy steel door.
Damian drew his sidearm, checked the magazine with a practiced click, and walked out of the basement into the main hallway. The sound of gunfire echoed through the high ceilings, glass shattering from the upper-story windows as stray rounds peppered the exterior walls.
He didn't hesitate. He moved with the lethal grace of a predator defending its den.
As he stepped out onto the grand front portico, two Syndicate operatives rounded the marble corner, weapons raised. Damian didn't give them time to adjust their aim. Two quick, controlled shots cracked through the night air, and both men crumpled to the stone floor without a sound.
Stepping over the fallen bodies, Damian walked out onto the lawn, the smoke swirling around his boots like an ominous fog.
"Damian Cross!" a voice boomed from the darkness near the pulverized gate. Out from the shadows stepped Viktor Sterling himself, flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards. Viktor looked older than he had six years ago, his face etched with desperation and the bitter realization that his empire was crumbling around him.
"Viktor," Damian said, his voice cutting cleanly through the roar of distant gunfire. He raised his weapon, keeping it steady and aimed directly at Viktor’s chest. "You've aged. Murdering children will do that to a man's conscience—assuming you ever had one."
Viktor sneered, raising his own pistol, though his hand trembled slightly under the weight of Damian’s unblinking gaze. "It was business, Damian. You grew too big, too fast. We had to clip your wings."
"You didn't clip my wings, Viktor," Damian replied, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "You woke a dragon."
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Before Viktor could pull his trigger, a shadow dropped silently from the roof above, landing directly behind Viktor's bodyguards. Before the men could turn, steel flashed in the moonlight. Within three seconds, all four guards hit the ground, neutralized by Marcus and the rapid-response detail.
Viktor froze, his gun hand dropping slowly to his side as he realized he was entirely alone, surrounded by the smoking ruins of his own master plan.
