Chapter 7 - The Ambush
At 2:00 a.m.—exactly one hour before the nightly terror was supposed to resume—Rory’s tactical team moved through the darkened corridors of the Hamptons estate like ghosts.
Marcus Vance sat in his private quarters in the staff annex, his eyes glued to his computer screen as he monitored the proxy loop. He smiled smugly, believing his master plan was nearing its final phase.
Clack.
The heavy oak door of his quarters was kicked off its hinges with a deafening crash.
Marcus whipped around, scrambling for the pistol in his desk drawer.
Before his fingers touched the grip, Rory stood over him, the barrel of a customized sig-sauer pressed squarely against the center of Marcus’s forehead.
“Don't,” Rory whispered, his voice dripping with lethal ice.
Marco and two heavily armed guards swarmed the room, pinning Marcus to his chair and kicking his weapon across the floor.
Marcus swallowed hard, sweat instantly pouring down his face. He forced a crooked, nervous smile. “Rory—Boss! What is the meaning of this? You’re pointing a gun at me?”
“Save the act, Marcus,” Rory growled, stepping closer until the gun barrel dug painfully into Marcus's skin. “The proxy loop is closed. The IP resolves right here, to your private terminal. You bugged my daughters’ teddy bear. You played psychological games with six-year-old children.”
Marcus realized the jig was up. The cowardice beneath his polished exterior instantly surfaced. He began to tremble, raising his hands in frantic surrender.
“I had to! The Morettis offered me the entire North District shipping lanes!” Marcus blurted out, panic cracking his voice. “You were getting soft, Rory! You spend all your time worrying about those little girls instead of expanding the empire! I just wanted to—aghh!”
Rory slammed the butt of his pistol against Marcus’s jaw, cutting off the cowardly excuse with a sickening crunch. Marcus slumped backward in the chair, blood pouring from his split lip.
“You touched my daughters,” Rory said, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, absolute calm. “You used my blood to carve a path to my throne. There is no negotiation for that. There is no exile.”
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“Boss,” Marco stepped forward, keeping his submachine gun raised. “What do we do with him?”
“Tie him up and throw him in the transport van,” Rory ordered, not taking his eyes off the broken traitor. “Deliver him to Vincent Moretti’s front gate with a message: The game is over, and I am coming for the rest of you.”
