Chapter 7 - The Breaching of the Front Wall
The second blow from the sledgehammer tore the door completely off its hinges, sending the heavy slab crashing onto the hardwood floor with a deafening thud. Dust and splintered wood filled the air as three masked figures in tactical gear swarmed through the shattered entryway, their assault rifles raised and scanning the room.
Mark didn't hesitate. He stepped out from behind the grey couch, his MP5 snapping upward with lethal precision.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
The suppressed gunfire was a sharp, mechanical stutter. The lead operative took two rounds to the Kevlar vest, spinning backward and crashing into the coffee table, sending the manila folder and the stack of red-bound documents flying into the air.
“Contact left!” the second operative yelled, pivoting his weapon toward Mark.
Before he could pull the trigger, Agent Vance leaned out from his position by the wall, his SIG Sauer barking twice. The operative dropped his rifle, clutching his shoulder as he stumbled backward out the broken doorway.
The third operative raised his weapon to fire at Vance, but Mark swept his barrel left and squeezed the trigger. A clean, precise burst caught the intruder in the thigh, dropping him instantly to his knees with a muffled groan of agony.
In less than four seconds, the living room was silent again, save for the acrid smell of gunpowder and the groans of the wounded operative on the floor.
“Clear!” Vance shouted, stepping out from the wall and kicking an assault rifle away from the fallen man’s reach.
Mark lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway. He knew this was only the vanguard. Victor Alvarez was never the kind of man to send three soldiers and stay in the car.
“That was just the cleanup crew,” Mark said, his voice hard as iron. He walked over to the wounded operative whimpering near the coffee table and knelt down, pressing the muzzle of his submachine gun lightly against the man’s tactical vest. “Where is Alvarez?”
The masked man spat a mouthful of blood onto the rug, his eyes hidden behind tinted tactical goggles, but a twisted grin pulled at his lips.
“You’re too late, Miller,” the operative wheezed, his breath rattling in his chest. “He’s already at the back deck. He knows about the storm shelter.”
Mark’s blood ran cold. Elena and Leo were down there.
He didn't wait to hear another word. He shoved past Vance, sprinting down the hallway toward the back patio door, his boots pounding against the wooden floorboards.
“Mark, wait! It’s a bottleneck!” Vance yelled, chasing closely behind him with his pistol drawn.
Mark reached the patio door and threw it open, stepping out onto the elevated wooden deck. The grey mist of the afternoon had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle. Below the deck, the heavy steel doors of the underground storm shelter stood wide open, and the white laundry basket lay discarded on the wet grass, its contents spilling out into the mud.
Standing at the bottom of the bunker steps, holding little Leo by the arm while Sarah pressed herself against the concrete wall with a terrified expression, was a tall man with a sharp silver streak in his dark hair and an expensive trench coat dripping with rain.
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Victor Alvarez looked up, smiling coldly as he pressed the barrel of a polished silver pistol directly against the side of little Leo’s head.
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