Chapter 8 - The Siege of Callaway Manor
The snow began to fall again, thick and heavy, turning the sprawling lawns of Callaway Manor into a blanket of pristine white. That pristine white was soon scarred by the blinding headlights of three black armored SUVs that smashed through the outer perimeter security gates with a deafening crunch of twisted iron.
From the shadows of the second-floor balcony, Reed watched the vehicles fan out across the circular drive. Doors flew open, and over a dozen heavily armed mercenaries in black tactical gear spilled out onto the grounds, raising assault rifles and fanning out toward the main entrance.
They thought it would be an easy hit. They thought a man distracted by a rediscovered family was a man whose edge had dulled.
They were catastrophically wrong.
Before the first mercenary could reach the grand front steps, the estate’s automated defense turrets—hidden within the stone gargoyles and oak branches—hummed to life. High-intensity floodlights suddenly blasted the lawn into daylight, blinding the intruders.
Crack. Crack.
From the sniper nests on the roof, Reed’s elite security detail opened fire with suppressive precision, dropping the two lead attackers instantly into the snow.
Panic rippled through the strike team. "It's a trap! Fall back!" one of them shouted over the comms.
"There's no falling back," a deep, cold voice echoed from the darkness of the portico.
The mercenaries spun around, raising their weapons—only to find Reed Callaway standing at the top of the grand marble steps, framed by the glowing light of the doorway. He didn't flinch as an assault rifle swung toward him. With terrifying, calculated speed, Reed raised his pistol and fired twice.
The lead mercenary dropped his weapon and crashed into the snow.
Before the others could react, Reed descended the steps into the freezing night, moving like an apex predator through his own domain. Every shot was deliberate. Every movement was economic and lethal. Behind him, Marco and the tactical team swarmed out from the side wings, cutting off any hope of retreat.
Within eight minutes, the siege was over. The surviving mercenaries were zip-tied and face-down in the freezing snow, waiting for the federal transport or the shallow graves, depending on how cooperative they felt like being.
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Reed stood in the center of the bloody driveway, his breathing steady, snow melting against his shoulders. He holstered his weapon, wiped a speck of ash from his cheek, and turned back toward the house.
The wolf had protected his pack. Now, it was time to return to them.
