Chapter 8 - The Hammer of Retribution
Marcus emptied an entire thirty-round magazine of armor-piercing ammunition directly into the hydraulic linkages of the lead helicopter's primary rotor mast.
Sparks erupted from the metal cowling. A screech of shredding titanium tore through the mountain air as black smoke belched from the turbine exhaust. The aircraft spun wildly in a horizontal spiral, the pilot completely losing anti-torque authority.
“PULL UP! PULL UP!” the pilot screamed over the open frequency.
The black gunship cartwheeled into the side of the mountain, its spinning rotor blades slicing through forty-foot pine trees like a giant lawnmower before slamming into a snow-covered ravine.
*BOOM!*
A massive fireball billowed into the gray sky, sending a shockwave that rattled the ancient stained glass of Mount Carmel’s chapel.
The second helicopter immediately broke off its attack, banking hard to the south to evade Clara’s pinpoint rifle fire. But its side door gunner had already pivoted, unleashing a heavy spray of suppressive fire across the priory courtyard.
“CLARA, DOWN!” Marcus roared, leaping down the stone staircase from the bell tower.
Rounds chewed through the heavy oak doors, sending razor-sharp wooden splinters flying in every direction. Clara scrambled behind a thick granite pillar as bullets chewed through the masonry inches from her head.
Marcus hit the bottom of the stairs, coming out firing. He engaged two Blackthorne mercenaries who had fast-roped down from the second bird before it pulled away.
The first operator rounded the corner of the scriptorium, his weapon raised, but Marcus put two rounds through his center chest before the man could register his target. Marcus swept the rifle up, catching the second mercenary in the throat as he cleared the cloister gate. Both men collapsed into the snow, their weapons clattering away.
Silence descended upon the mountain peak once more—broken only by the crackle of the burning helicopter wreckage in the ravine below and the heavy, ragged breathing of mother and son.
Marcus sprinted to Clara’s side. “Are you hit?”
Clara leaned against the granite pillar, her left hand clutching her shoulder. Crimson was blooming through the black fabric of her habit.
Marcus’s heart seized. “Clara!”
“It’s a graze, Marcus… just flesh,” she gritted her teeth, her breath hissing in pain, but her eyes remained as steady as steel. “Look… at the ravine.”
Marcus stepped toward the edge of the courtyard, his weapon raised.
Crawling out of the smoking, crumpled wreckage of the downed helicopter was a solitary figure. His expensive cashmere coat was charred and shredded, his face covered in soot and blood, dragging a broken leg through the deep snow.
Senator Richard Sterling.
The architect of fifty years of treason, murder, and deceit was on his hands and knees, whimpering as the freezing mountain air bit into his burns.
Marcus walked down the path toward him, his boots leaving heavy, deliberate tracks in the snow. His rifle hung at his side; he didn't need it.
Sterling looked up, his one unswollen eye widening in sheer terror as the towering silhouette of General Vance blocked out the gray sky.
“Marcus…” Sterling coughed, spitting blood onto the snow. “Marcus, listen to me… I’m a patriot… what I did… it was for the country… to secure our future…”
Marcus stepped on Sterling’s outstretched hand, pinning his fingers into the frozen rock.
The Senator shrieked in agony.
“You aren't a patriot, Sterling,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying cadence. “You’re a traitor who hid behind a senate pin. You tried to murder my mother fifty years ago. You poisoned the woman who raised me. And you sent your daughter to turn my life into a lie.”
“You can’t… you can’t execute me…” Sterling wept, the arrogance completely extinguished. “I have rights… I demand a trial…”
Marcus looked up as the deafening roar of four heavy military aircraft shattered the sky above the mountain.
Breaking through the blizzard were two AH-64 Apache attack gunships, escorting two massive CH-47 Chinook transport helicopters bearing the distinctive insignia of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—the Night Stalkers.
Dozens of elite Army Rangers began fast-roping into the monastery compound, securing the perimeter with lethal, overwhelming precision.
Major Hayes leaped from the lead transport, his rifle raised, running toward Marcus.
“General!” Hayes shouted over the rotor wash. “The Secretary of Defense has personally taken command of the incident! FBI tactical units have raided Sterling’s DC headquarters! Victoria has signed a full confession! The entire network is compromised!”
Marcus looked down at the broken, groveling senator beneath his boot.
May you like
“You’re getting your trial, Sterling,” Marcus whispered coldly. “And the woman who puts the noose around your neck will be the sister you tried to burn alive.”
***
