Chapter 6 - The Battle for the Vance Estate
By five-forty-five, the snow had stopped, leaving the grounds of the estate buried under a pristine, deathly white silence. The sky to the east was turning the color of a bruised plum—a dark, cold purple that offered no warmth.
The South Side had answered my call.
Parked discreetly along the tree-lined avenue outside the estate gates were eight black sedans and three flatbed commercial trucks from the dock yards. Forty men—dockworkers, enforcers, guys who had spent twenty years handling freight and iron on the river—stood positioned behind the stone walls. They didn't wear tailored suits. They wore heavy canvas jackets, steel-toed boots, and carried pump-action shotguns and automatic rifles under their coats.
I stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the driveway, a silver thermal flask of black coffee in my hand. Beside me stood my second-in-command, a big man named Frank who had run the docks at Pier 12 since my father was alive.
"They're coming up the avenue, boss," Frank said, lowering his night-vision binoculars. "Four SUVs. Blacked-out windows, no plates. Moving fast."
"How many?" I asked, taking a slow sip of coffee.
"At least twelve," Frank replied. "Arthur's primary tactical team. The ones he uses when a rival union organizer gets too loud or a city auditor starts asking about the water treatment funds."
"Tell the boys at the gate to let them through," I said. "Don't fire a shot until all four vehicles are inside the courtyard. I want them pinned against the stone wall."
Frank grinned, a flash of gold teeth in the twilight. "Understood, Mr. Vance."
Downstairs, the house was silent. My mother had been moved to the interior study behind reinforced doors, accompanied by two armed guards. Ewan remained in the cellar, a loaded Colt .45 resting on his chest. And upstairs in the master guest suite, Celeste Vandermark was standing near the window, watching her father's strike force enter the trap.
The sound of heavy engines echoed through the trees.
The four black SUVs surged through the broken front gates, their tires spraying snow as they swung into the circular gravel courtyard in front of the main entrance. They didn't park in a line; they formed an assault wedge, their headlights blazing against the grey stone facade of the house.
The doors flew open simultaneously.
Twelve men in tactical vests, helmets, and suppressed submachine guns stepped out onto the snow, moving in precise formation toward the front steps.
Standing at the front of the group was a man I recognized instantly: Victor Vance—no relation to my family—a former tactical officer who had served ten years as Arthur Vandermark's chief of personal security. He was a brute of a man with a thick neck and a long scar running through his grey beard.
Victor raised a bullhorn to his mouth.
"Marcus Vance!" his voice boomed across the snow, amplified and harsh. "By order of Arthur Vandermark, you are holding property that does not belong to you! Hand over Celeste Vandermark and the documents in your possession, or we clear this house room by room!"
I leaned over the balcony railing, setting my coffee flask on the stone ledge.
"Victor!" I shouted down, my voice carrying easily in the crisp morning air. "You're five minutes late! And you brought twelve men to do a job that requires fifty!"
Victor’s eyes snapped up toward the balcony. He raised his hand to order his men forward. "Breach the door!"
Before the first tactical officer could touch the stone steps, I raised my right hand and snapped my fingers.
From the tree line surrounding the courtyard, four commercial spotlights—the heavy, two-thousand-watt halogen lamps used on the cargo docks—switched on instantly.
A wall of blinding, white light slammed into the courtyard, turning the dark dawn into mid-day in a fraction of a second.
The twelve tactical men stumbled back, cursing, raising their hands to shield their eyes from the agonizing glare.
"Drop your weapons!" Frank’s voice bellowed through an amplifier from the roof. "You are surrounded by forty armed men with high-ground vantage! Put the guns on the snow or we paint the drive with you!"
Through the blinding glare of the spotlights, the barrels of forty shotguns and rifles emerged over the stone garden walls, trained directly on the twelve men trapped in the center of the gravel drive.
The tactical team froze. These were professionals—men paid high salaries to intimidate politicians and beat up unarmed labor reps. They were not suicidal. They looked at the forty barrels aimed at their chests, looked at the blinding lights, and realized they had walked into an absolute slaughterhouse.
"Victor!" I called down from the balcony. "Tell your men to lay their gear on the hood of the lead SUV. If a single trigger is pulled, I won't just kill you—I'll send your heads to Arthur Vandermark's breakfast table in an ice chest."
Victor stood in the center of the light, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding from thirty feet away. He looked up at me, then at the shadow of Frank standing on the roof with a heavy sniper rifle aimed at his forehead.
Slowly, deliberately, Victor unclipped his submachine gun and laid it on the hood of the nearest vehicle.
"Unbuckle the vests," Victor ordered his men through gritted teeth. "All of it. Now."
One by one, the twelve men unclasped their tactical gear, dropping their weapons, sidearms, and vests onto the snow until they stood in their black thermal shirts, shivering in the sub-zero air.
May you like
"Frank," I said, turning toward the stairs. "Secure them in the carriage house. Tie them well. And bring Victor to my study."
I walked back inside, pulling my heavy coat tight around my shoulders. The front door was gone, the cold wind blowing through the grand hallway, but for the first time in two years, the air inside the Vance estate felt completely clean.
