Chapter 36 - The Breach of the East Wing
The assault did not begin at the reinforced front doors; the attackers were elite professionals who knew the architectural blueprints of the St. Claire mansion better than the contractors who had built it. High-explosive shaped charges detonated simultaneously along the French doors of the East Wing conservatory, blowing three hundred square feet of structural brick and reinforced glass into the formal sitting rooms with an ear-shattering concussive roar. Plaster dust, smoke, and freezing winter air swirled into the dark corridors as six tactical operatives in matte-black ceramic armor poured through the breach, their suppressed carbines sweeping the darkness with invisible infrared targeting lasers.
Julian was already waiting in the shadows of the second-floor mezzanine, his silhouette completely masked by the massive marble arches. The moment the point-man’s infrared laser crossed the bottom step of the grand staircase, Julian squeezed the trigger of his rifle in three controlled, disciplined bursts. The high-velocity rounds struck the lead mercenary directly in the unarmored throat seal, dropping him instantly to the checkered floor like a sack of lead. The remaining five operatives reacted with instantaneous military discipline, fanning out into high-low suppression formations and filling the upper balustrade with a relentless hail of armor-piercing subsonic rounds that pulverized the antique balusters into flying splinters of white marble.
Julian rolled across the Persian carpet as stone fragments shredded his sleeve, drawing a tactical stun grenade from his harness, pulling the pin with his teeth, and hurling it over the railing into the center of the conservatory foyer. The resulting flash-bang detonation flooded the blacked-out hall with five million candlepower of blinding magnesium light and a 170-decibel shockwave that momentarily disoriented the attackers’ high-tech optical headsets. Julian sprang from the top of the stairs, firing downward with surgical, lethal precision; two more mercenaries collapsed onto the shattered glass of the conservatory, their weapons clattering across the floor as their blood pooled into the Persian rugs.
May you like
But the remaining three mercenaries did not retreat; instead, two dropped smoke canisters that hissed thick, choking gray fog across the foyer, while the third lunged forward with a pneumatic grappling cable, aiming directly for Julian’s position. Julian dropped his empty rifle, unholstering his nine-millimeter sidearm, and engaged the advancing operative in brutal, hand-to-hand close-quarters combat against the marble pillar. The mercenary’s combat knife slashed across Julian’s ribs, slicing through his leather jacket, but Julian countered with a savage downward elbow strike that shattered the man’s tactical helmet visor, following through with two point-blank shots through the operative’s chest plate.
As the operative slumped dead against the base of the pillar, Julian grabbed the man’s tactical vest, ripping away the velcro unit patch pinned to his shoulder. It was the same symbol from the courier case: the ancient ouroboros encircling a broken crown. But before Julian could catch his breath, a heavy boot struck him across the back of the neck, sending him crashing face-first onto the blood-soaked marble floor as the remaining two mercenaries pinned him under the cold steel barrels of their carbines.
