Chapter 27 - The Dinner of Wolves
Julian Vance stepped out of the passenger side of the lead SUV, wearing a sodden trench coat over clinical scrub pants. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed out by months of drug abuse and the manic desperation of a cornered beast. In his trembling right hand, he clutched a semi-automatic pistol.
"Evelyn!" Julian shrieked into the rain, his voice cracking with madness. "Come out, you lying whore! Bring my children out! They belong to the trust! They belong to me!"
From the second vehicle, three men dressed in unmarked tactical gear stepped out, raising sound-suppressed rifles toward the front door.
"Julian," I spoke, not from the house, but through the helicopter’s high-output tactical loudspeaker system. My voice boomed across the entire neighborhood, drowning out the roar of the rain. "Put the gun down before you embarrass yourself for the last time."
Julian spun around, looking up into the blinding 50-million-candlepower searchlight beam that pinned him to the asphalt like a rat in an alleyway. He raised his pistol, firing wildly toward the sky. "You took my money! You took my company! You took my mother’s pride! I’m taking what’s mine, Evelyn!"
"They were never yours, Julian," another voice rang out over the speaker—colder, deeper, vibrating with the supreme authority of an ancient dynasty.
The tactical operatives in the street froze. Even Julian lowered his gun by an inch, his jaw dropping as the timbre of the voice reached his ears. It was a voice he had heard only once before—thirty years ago, in a Swiss courtroom when Arthur Vance Sr.’s legitimate estate was sealed.
"Alexander...?" Julian whimpered, his face turning paper-white. "No... no, you’re dead. Mother said you drowned in Lake Geneva!"
Before Julian could raise his weapon again, two ropes dropped from the helicopter skids.
Henri descended first, hitting the lawn with fluid, terrifying grace. Alexander followed a second later, dropping the final ten feet and landing on his boots with the heavy thud of an apex predator claiming his territory. He didn't carry a rifle. He walked straight toward Julian through the blinding rain, his charcoal suit absorbing the water, his eyes glowing like silver embers in the helicopter searchlight.
The mercenaries hired by the European consortium took one look at Alexander, looked at the rampant lion crest embroidered on his lapel, and immediately lowered their weapons.
"Contract breach," the lead mercenary muttered in German, backing away toward the sidewalk. "We were hired to extract family assets from a civilian ex-wife. We do not engage the Geneva Patriarch."
"What are you doing?!" Julian screamed, waving his gun at his own men. "Shoot him! I promised you twenty million! Shoot him!"
"They work for the Rhine-Danube Security Group, Julian," Alexander said calmly, closing the distance between them until he was barely five feet away. "And who do you think owns fifty-one percent of their parent corporation in Frankfurt?"
The three mercenaries turned and walked away into the darkness, leaving Julian completely alone on the ruined lawn.
Julian’s hand shook so violently the pistol rattled against his wedding ring—the one he still pathetically wore. "Stay back! I'll do it, Alexander! I’ll blow my brains out and spray my blood all over your precious brownstone! You won't get the custody! You won't get the seal!"
Alexander didn't slow down. He stepped right into the barrel of the gun, pressing his own chest against the cold steel.
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"Pull it," Alexander whispered softly. "Do it, Julian. For once in your miserable, fraudulent life, make a decision that doesn't require your mother's permission."
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