Chapter 13 - The Ambush at Point Break
The fog was rolling in thick off the Atlantic, cloaking the pine forest in heavy gray shadows. Through the thermal optics of my scope, four heat signatures emerged from the lead SUV, moving in a practiced wedge formation. Two more detached from the rear vehicle, carrying heavy suppressed carbines and tactical breach kits.
These weren't street thugs or Catherine’s hired private security. Their footwork, muzzle discipline, and tactical spacing screamed elite private military contractors.
"Contractors from the Global Defense Initiative," I whispered, recognizing the distinctive chest-rig layout on the point man. "Kane’s old mercenary company."
They made it fifty yards past the property boundary before reaching the tripwire line.
I didn't wait for them to reach the porch. I pressed the remote detonator keyed to non-lethal flash-stun canisters buried beneath the mulch.
*CRACK!*
A blinding cascade of magnesium light and concussive shockwaves tore through the damp woods. The point man stumbled, disoriented, his hands flying to his night-vision goggles to prevent retinal burn.
I kicked open the reinforced storm door, raised the SCAR, and fired three double-taps into the mist.
Three suppressed thuds. Three center-mass impacts.
The two point men collapsed instantly, their armor compromised by the armor-piercing 7.62 rounds. The remaining operatives immediately dove into the brush, laying down a vicious hail of suppressed fire that chewed into the porch railings and shattered the decorative cedar posts.
"Suppressing fire!" one of them barked in a guttural European accent. "Flank the east side! Grab the girl alive, kill the shooter!"
"Rosalie! Basement hatch!" I shouted over the deafening cracks of bullets striking the exterior stonework.
"Not leaving you!" she called back, repositioning herself at the low reinforced window.
A shadow darted toward the eastern deck. Rosalie didn't hesitate. She leveled her Sig Sauer and squeezed the trigger twice with clinical focus. The rounds shattered the glass and struck the encroaching mercenary squarely in the throat and chest. He dropped like dead weight off the wooden stairs.
Her hands didn't shake. Her eyes were flint.
"East is clear!" she called out, breathing heavily.
"Good girl," I said, a grim smirk touching my lips. But my senses screamed an alert. There were six signatures earlier, but only four had pushed forward.
A heavy diesel engine roared to life behind the house.
A third vehicle, hidden behind the high rocky ridge, surged forward, smashing through the side fence. The heavy bull bar slammed straight into the back corner of the garage, sending splinters and stone flying through the air.
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Through the pulverized drywall, a massive figure stepped out into the smoke. He wore combat fatigues, a tactical headset, and carried an automatic shotgun. On his neck was the distinct faded tattoo of an airborne dagger—the mark of Kane's personal kill squad.
"Sinclair!" the man bellowed over the whine of sirens. "Colonel Kane sends his regards!"
