Chapter 6 - Blood on the Marble
At 6:14 PM, the three unmarked black vans rolled quietly up the long, snow-covered driveway of the Kade estate.
They killed their headlights fifty yards from the main portico.
Twelve men in dark tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns and door-breaching charges, spilled out onto the snow. At the head of the team was Detective Vance Miller—wearing his heavy tactical vest over a police coat, the surgical scar on his jaw white against his reddened skin, the ruby signet ring on his right hand gleaming under his glove.
"Check the perimeter," Miller hissed to his second-in-command. "Where are the perimeter guards?"
"Gate power is out, sir," the man whispered back, looking at his night-vision goggles. "Looks like the snow storm knocked out their primary generator. House is running on low backup power. No sentries on the south porch."
Miller grinned—a yellow-toothed, cruel smile. "Kade is getting soft. He’s so focused on his wedding he forgot how to defend his own den. Move in. Clear the ground floor, find the maid and the kid, take them out quietly, then plant the Marchetti competitor tags in the foyer."
The twelve men crept up the wide stone steps of the front porch.
Miller reached out and turned the heavy bronze handle of the double oak front doors.
It was unlocked.
The doors swung open silently, revealing the vast, dark foyer of the mansion. The double marble staircase curved upward into shadow, lit only by the pale, eerie red glow of the emergency exit lights.
The twelve men slipped inside, their combat boots making no sound on the thick oriental rugs.
"Split into pairs," Miller ordered in a hushed tone. "Team A, take the kitchen and staff quarters. Team B, check the basement stairs—"
CLICK.
The heavy double front doors behind them slammed shut with the force of a thunderclap.
A heavy steel security shutter dropped from the stone archway above the door, sealing the exit with a deafening CRASH.
Simultaneously, four massive industrial floodlights mounted on the second-floor balcony ignited, blinding the men in tactical gear with fifty thousand lumens of pure, white light.
"TRAP!" Miller screamed, raising his weapon. "BREACH THE SHUTTER! BREACH IT—"
From the top of the marble staircase, a shadow stepped into the brilliant white light.
Weston Kade stood at the railing, wearing a black suit, holding his heavy combat shotgun at his hip. Behind him, standing along the second-floor catwalk, were twenty Kade security operatives armed with heavy assault rifles.
"Vance Miller," Weston’s voice boomed through the high-ceilinged room like the judgment of God. "You are trespassing on private property."
Miller’s face went white as chalk. He raised his submachine gun toward the balcony. "FIRE! KILL THEM ALL!"
BOOM!
Weston fired the shotgun first. The heavy 12-gauge slug caught Miller’s lead tactical operative in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him ten feet backward across the polished marble floor.
Instantly, the balcony erupted into a storm of gunfire.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Muzzle flashes strobed across the second-floor railing like violent lightning. Shell casings rained down onto the stairs in a golden shower, clinking against the marble like falling coins.
Miller’s men scrambled frantically for cover behind the heavy mahogany pillars and stone statues in the foyer, firing blind bursts back toward the balcony. But Weston’s men held the high ground, completely pinning the tactical team inside a lethal crossfire.
Weston didn't hide behind cover. He walked slowly down the marble staircase, firing his shotgun with calm, terrifying precision.
BOOM! Another gunman dropped beside the fireplace. BOOM! A third man fell near the grand clock.
Miller, screaming in panic, scrambled behind a heavy marble pillar near the dining room entrance, his hands trembling as he reloaded his weapon. His tactical radio buzzed loudly on his shoulder.
"Miller!" Silas Marchetti’s frantic voice came through the speaker. "Miller, report! Is Kade dead?!"
Miller grabbed the radio, his face slick with sweat and gunsmoke. "It's a trap, Silas! He knew! He was waiting for us—"
A hand reached around the marble pillar.
Large, rock-solid fingers wrapped around Miller’s throat, cutting off his air instantly.
Weston lifted the two-hundred-pound detective off his feet with one arm, slamming him violently against the stone wall.
Miller’s submachine gun clattered to the floor. He kicked his legs uselessly, his hands clawing frantically at Weston’s iron grip, his eyes bulging as he choked for air.
Around them, the gunfire died down to silence. All eleven of Miller’s tactical men lay motionless across the blood-stained white marble floor.
Weston leaned in close, his dark grey eyes staring directly into Miller’s bulging, terrified eyes.
"Three years ago," Weston whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute, cold fury. "You stood by my wife's burning car. You sprayed petrol under my daughter's seat."
Miller’s face turned purple. "Please..." he squeaked out. "It was... Silas... Silas paid me..."
Weston reached out with his left hand, grabbed Miller’s right wrist, and squeezed until the bones in his fingers shattered with a sickening CRACK.
Miller let out a muffled, agonizing shriek behind Weston’s grip.
Weston pulled the ruby signet ring off Miller’s broken finger and slipped it into his pocket.
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"You threatened a four-year-old child, Vance," Weston growled into his ear. "And for that... you don't even get a grave."
Weston tightened his grip on Miller’s throat, turned his wrist with a swift, brutal flick, and a sharp SNAP echoed through the silent, bloody foyer.
