Chapter 7 - Ambush in the Woods
The night exploded into gunfire.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the dense pine trees surrounding the compound. The sound of automatic rifle fire shattered the quiet country air as Dominic’s security guards engaged the invading strike team near the north perimeter.
"They brought a kill squad!" Marko yelled over the radio, his voice crackling through our tactical earpieces. "At least twelve shooters! They're wearing heavy body armor and using military-grade gear!"
Dominic and I moved swiftly down the polished stone hallway toward the subterranean armory exit. He moved with a terrifying, practiced grace, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning every shadow.
"They didn't come for the compound," I said, crouching low near a floor-to-ceiling glass window as a hail of bullets shattered the glass above our heads. "They came for you, Dominic! They know about the summit!"
"Then we make sure none of them leave to report back," Dominic replied, his voice dead calm.
Two heavy-set men dressed in black tactical gear kicked open the side courtyard doors, raising their submachine guns.
Before they could acquire their targets, I stepped out from behind the marble pillar.
BANG. BANG.
Two precise rounds took the first shooter through the neck, right above his body armor plate. He collapsed instantly.
The second shooter spun toward me, but Dominic stepped up beside my shoulder, firing three continuous rounds into the shooter's chest plate, driving him back against the wall, before finishing him with a headshot.
We moved as one. No wasted words, no hesitation. It was as if eleven years of my buried instincts and Dominic’s years of combat leadership blended into a lethal, synchronized rhythm.
We flanked the remaining invaders in the courtyard, catching them in a crossfire between our position and Marko’s tactical team. Within six minutes, the gunfire died down into a suffocating, heavy silence.
The smell of cordite and copper hung thick in the cold air. Nine dead hitmen lay scattered across the manicured lawn.
Marko walked over, checking the pulse of the fallen men, and pulled a tactical patch off the shoulder of the lead attacker’s vest.
"Whitmore’s private security detail," Marko spat, tossing the blood-stained patch onto the grass. "They used a GPS tracker to find this place."
"How did they get a tracker past our security grid?" I asked, my brow furrowing as I scanned the grounds.
Dominic walked over to his private SUV parked near the garage. He leaned down, reaching beneath the rear wheel well, and pulled out a small, magnetic tracking device blinking with a blue LED light.
He held the tracker up to the light, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his face bulged.
"This isn't a professional tracker," Dominic said quietly, looking at me. "This is a consumer-grade device. Someone placed this on my vehicle manually within the last twenty-four hours."
My blood ran cold. "A mole inside the compound."
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Dominic turned his dark eyes toward the remaining six staff members and guards standing near the doorway.
"Marko," Dominic ordered, his voice dropping into an ice-cold death sentence. "Lock down the compound. Nobody leaves. Nobody uses a phone. It's time to clean house."
