Chapter 94 - Blackwood Ridge Encircled
The twin turboshaft engines of the UH-60 Black Hawk roared against the screaming gale as the helicopter cut low through the Hudson Valley gorge.
Below them, the black, churning waters of the river looked like an ocean of liquid obsidian, flanked by jagged granite cliffs coated in winter ice.
Ethan sat strapped into the jump seat, wearing a Kevlar tactical vest beneath his dark tactical jacket.
His eyes were fixed on the thermal imaging monitor mounted in the cabin bulkhead.
On the screen, Blackwood Ridge Manor materialized out of the mountain fog.
It was an imposing, Gothic monstrosity of grey stone, sprawling wings, and high slate roofs, perched precariously on the edge of a five-hundred-foot precipice overlooking the river.
Built in the 1920s by Charles Sterling’s father, the estate had always been a monument to arrogant power—an impenetrable fortress designed to withstand sieges, scandals, and wars.
Tonight, it looked like a tomb.
"Thermal scan active," the crew chief announced over the internal headset. "I count forty-two heat signatures on the grounds. Heavy perimeter patrols. Snipers on the north and east parapets."
"Those aren't Thomas’s private mercenaries," Marcus noted, leaning over Ethan’s shoulder to study the thermal silhouettes. "Look at their patrol spacing. Tight overlapping fire zones. Military-grade spacing."
"Victoria’s executioners," Ethan said, his voice cold and steady. "The Council’s cleanup crew. They’re already in position."
"If they've encircled the manor," Marcus said, "Thomas doesn't even realize he’s already inside a kill box."
"Thomas was always blinded by his own vanity," Ethan replied. "He thinks he’s holding court. He thinks he’s the king demanding tribute."
Ethan adjusted the tactical radio on his vest, tuning to a closed shortwave frequency.
"Roman, are your ground units in place?"
"In position at the southern service gate, Boss," Roman’s voice crackled through the static from miles below. "We’ve taken out the external sensor relays without tripping the main alarm. But the main driveway is mined with directional claymores. We can't punch through with armored vehicles without triggering a general alert."
"Then we don't use the driveway," Ethan said.
He looked at the crew chief. "Drop us on the roof of the old servant quarters. Blind spot between the north parapet and the chimneys."
"Wind shear is sixty knots over the ridge, Mr. Sterling!" the pilot called out from the cockpit. "Rooftop insertion is high risk!"
"Do it," Ethan commanded, without a trace of hesitation.
The Black Hawk flared hard over the jagged rooflines of Blackwood Ridge Manor. The downdraft sent slate shingles tearing through the air like lethal shrapnel.
Ethan kicked open the side door. The freezing mountain wind hit him like a physical fist, howling with the fury of a blizzard.
Below, the wet slate roof slanted steeply toward a sickening drop into the abyss.
Ethan gripped the fast-rope, kicked off the skid, and slid into the darkness.
His boots struck the slick stone roof with a muffled thud. He absorbed the impact, rolled immediately onto his side behind a massive brick chimney stack, and brought his suppressed rifle to his shoulder.
Marcus landed two seconds later, moving with the fluid lethality of a veteran operator, instantly covering the rear blind spot.
Above them, the Black Hawk cut its engines to minimum throttle and banked hard, vanishing back into the low-hanging cloud cover to avoid anti-air detection.
Silence fell over the roof, broken only by the whistling mountain wind and the distant hum of commercial-grade generators down in the courtyard.
Ethan crept along the roofline, peering over the stone balustrade into the courtyard below.
Three black luxury sedans were parked outside the grand portico. Armed men in unmarked tactical gear were moving quietly along the perimeter, setting shaped charges along the mansion’s structural support pillars.
*They're not just going to shoot everyone,* Ethan thought, his jaw tightening. *They’re bringing the entire manor down to bury the evidence.*
"Time?" Ethan whispered.
"11:48 PM," Marcus replied, checking his wrist unit. "Twelve minutes until midnight."
Ethan moved toward a skylight set into the roof of the third-floor art gallery.
He peered through the grimy, rain-streaked glass.
Below him lay the vast, vaulted expanse of the Grand Conservatory.
Marble columns rose toward a soaring glass dome. Crystal chandeliers hung from ornamental ironwork, casting a pale, shivering light across the room.
In the center of the conservatory, tied to an antique high-backed chair, was Olivia.
Her head was bowed, her dark hair falling across her face. A thick strip of tactical tape covered her mouth, and her wrists were bound tightly behind her back with industrial zip-ties.
Even from three stories above, Ethan could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the defiant rigidity in her shoulders. She was bruised, her hospital gown torn and stained, but she was alive.
Standing ten feet in front of her, holding a crystal glass of bourbon in one hand and a gold-plated semi-automatic pistol in the other, was Thomas Sterling.
He was pacing like a caged panther, checking his watch every thirty seconds, shouting at his terrified aides who stood trembling near the marble fireplace.
"Where is he?!" Thomas’s muffled roar echoed up through the ventilation shafts. "He had four hours! He knows what happens if he’s late!"
Ethan felt a surge of cold, focused adrenaline flood his veins.
He didn't feel fear. He didn't feel doubt.
He looked at the glass skylight, then down at the zip-tie cutter and flashbang grenades clipped to his chest harness.
"Marcus," Ethan whispered.
"Sir?"
"Victoria’s strike team is going to breach the ground floor in eleven minutes," Ethan said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. "When they blow the doors, Thomas’s men will panic."
"And that’s when we drop in?" Marcus asked.
"No," Ethan said, clicking the safety off his rifle. "We don't wait for Victoria’s cue. We take control of the board right now."
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Ethan unclipped two stun grenades from his belt, pulling the pins with his teeth.
"Hold onto something, brother," Ethan murmured, looking down at Thomas through the glass. "School’s back in session."
