Chapter 6: The Breach at Dawn
The silent shadows moving across the green lawn were unmistakable—trained operatives using standard-issue suppressed carbines and night-vision optics, advancing in a textbook bounding overwatch formation. Arthur stopped dead at the threshold of the kitchen pantry, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of the Glock concealed beneath his dark blue suit.
“They didn't wait for us to go to them,” Raymond hissed, crouching low behind the kitchen island as the first faint sound of glass fracturing echoed from the front foyer. “Henderson knew we’d figure out Blackwood Point. This is an intercept team designed to wipe us off the board right here, right now.”
Arthur’s mind worked with terrifying speed. Decades of tactical training that had remained dormant flooded back into his nervous system. Age was a handicap only if you fought on their terms. He didn't hesitate.
“They’re sweeping the perimeter to funnel us toward the back exit,” Arthur whispered, his voice steady and commanding. “They want us moving into the open garden where their snipers have an unobstructed view of the lawn.”
Raymond grinned wickedly in the dim light, pulling a small, cylindrical metal canister from his trench coat pocket—a flashbang grenade he must have smuggled through customs.
“Then let’s give them a proper housewarming gift,” Raymond whispered back, pulling the pin with his teeth.
Before the tactical team could breach the kitchen door, Raymond tossed the flashbang through the swinging service hatch into the formal dining room where the soft sounds of glass breaking had originated. A fraction of a second later, a blinding white flash turned the dark interior into daylight, followed instantly by a concussive boom that rattled the crystal chandeliers and shook the foundation of the house.
Shouts of disorientation echoed from the hallway.
“Now, Artie!” Raymond roared, charging through the pantry door with his tactical knife drawn.
Arthur moved with cold, lethal efficiency. He stepped out behind his brother, clearing the kitchen threshold just as the first tactical operative stumbled backward out of the dining room, hands clawing blindly at his ears and eyes from the flashbang’s blinding aftermath.
Raymond swept the operative’s legs out from under him with a brutal kick, sending the armored man crashing hard onto the hardwood floor. Arthur didn't slow down. He strode past them toward the front foyer, where two more operatives were desperately trying to recover their night-vision calibration in the smoky air.
Raising his Glock with a two-handed combat grip, Arthur fired two precise shots into the drywall directly above the intruders' heads, sending a shower of plaster dust raining down on their helmets.
“Drop your weapons!” Arthur’s voice boomed through the foyer, carrying the absolute authority of a man who commanded armies.
The lead operative blinked hard, trying to focus through his tactical visor, but the sheer, unblinking intensity in Arthur’s pale blue eyes froze him in his tracks. The man slowly lowered his carbine, recognizing the terrifying aura of the old man standing before him.
“You’re Vance,” the operative breathed, his voice trembling through his comm-link. “Henderson said you were retired.”
“Tell Henderson I’m coming out of retirement,” Arthur said coldly, stepping forward and striking the operative across the temple with the heavy butt of his pistol, sending him collapsing unconscious onto the Persian rug.
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Raymond walked up behind him, wiping a smear of soot from his trench coat, looking thoroughly amused.
“Well,” Raymond chuckled darkly, stepping over the fallen guard. “That certainly cleared out the party guests. Now, how are we getting to Blackwood Point before Henderson melts Clara down for parts?”
