Chapter 139 - The Siege of Annecy
The first concussive blast blew the wrought-iron security gate at the foot of our driveway completely off its stone hinges.
The sound echoed off the granite cliffs behind the estate like a rolling thunderclap. Through the master bedroom windows, twin halogen floodlights pierced the pine trees as two armored gray Mercedes G-Wagons crested the rise, spraying gravel against the manicured hedges.
"Breaching team in the courtyard!" Captain Dupont yelled through his tactical headset from the front entryway. "Automatic weapons! Suppressed fire!"
Crack-crack-crack-crack.
High-velocity rounds shattered the heavy double-glazed windows of the formal dining room, sending crystalline glass showering across the mahogany table where we had eaten peach tarts only hours before. Plaster dust rolled through the corridor like thick white fog.
I pushed Noah and Sophie down into the reinforced pantry behind the kitchen, racking the slide on my own compact 9mm pistol—a weapon Ethan had taught me to strip, clean, and fire until my hands were raw.
"Stay flat on the floor, kids," I commanded, my voice dropping into pure ice. "If the door opens and it isn't Marcus or Dupont, you crawl through the dumbwaiter shaft to the sub-basement."
"Mom," Noah whispered, his hand reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small black ceramic transmitter. "Wait."
"Noah, what is that?"
"The seaplane," Noah said, his eyes glowing with that razor-sharp brilliance. "The emergency rescue model I was flying at the lake. It isn't just a toy. Dad and I wired two high-intensity magnesium flare pods into the wing assemblies for night recovery tests."
He tapped the screen of his iPad, syncing the remote frequency to the model resting on the outdoor terrace charging pad.
Through the shattered dining room windows, the high-pitched whine of an electric brushless motor screamed to life.
The three-foot carbon-fiber seaplane leaped off its launch rail, climbing fifty feet into the dark sky above the courtyard, banking hard toward the advancing mercenaries.
Noah slammed his thumb down on the red interface icon.
FZZZZZZZZT-BOOM.
Twin military-grade magnesium flares ignited beneath the drone’s wings, blinding the courtyard in a blinding, million-candlepower eruption of white chemical fire.
The mercenaries, wearing sensitive night-vision goggles, screamed in agony, tearing the blinding optical units from their helmets as the thermal flare scorched their retinas.
"Now!" Marcus roared from the hallway.
Marcus and Dupont swept out of the ruined entryway, their suppressed carbines barking in synchronized, devastating rhythm. Three mercenaries collapsed into the ornamental fountain, while the remaining two scrambled backward behind their armored vehicles, firing blind bursts into the trees.
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Marcus sprinted to the pantry, kicking the door wide. "The western trail is clear! Dupont has the snowmobiles staging at the tree line! Move!"
I scooped Sophie into my left arm, grabbed Noah’s hand with my right, and sprinted through the smoke-filled kitchen into the freezing mountain night.
