Chapter 8 - The Clean Sweep
While the FBI launched a massive, sixty-vehicle tactical raid on the river port—capturing Victor Vance’s top lieutenants and seizing millions in illegal assets—Julian was executing his own silent strike.
In the basement of the estate, Julian stood before Bennett Cole. The traitor was tied to a wooden chair, his arm bandaged, trembling as he stared up at his former boss.
"The feds just raided the port, Bennett," Julian informed him quietly. "Victor’s entire operation in Tennessee is being dismantled as we speak."
Bennett choked back a sob. "Julian... please... what are you going to do to me?"
Julian picked up Bennett’s personal phone from the table. "You're going to make one final call to Victor Vance. You're going to tell him that your wire worked, that I'm dead, and that his men should come to the estate to collect the master ledgers."
Bennett blinked through his tears. "You're... you're baiting him here?"
"Victor Vance threatened a mother and a three-year-old child in my home," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register of total, uncompromising death. "He doesn't get to go to a comfortable federal prison, Bennett. He dies on my flagstones."
Twenty minutes later, three unmarked black sedans tore up the long driveway of the Ashworth estate.
Victor Vance himself stepped out of the lead vehicle, accompanied by eight heavily armed Chicago enforcers. He wore a heavy leather coat, a broad smile on his face, believing he was walking into an abandoned estate to claim his prize.
"Check the house!" Victor barked to his men. "Find the safe and load the ledgers!"
The enforcers spread out across the lawn.
Suddenly, the massive floodlights surrounding the courtyard snapped on, blinding the Chicago men with ten thousand watts of white light.
From the roof of the east wing, Marcus and six tactical guards opened fire with non-lethal flashbangs and precision suppression rounds. Within thirty seconds, Victor’s enforcers were on the ground, disarmed, disoriented, and screaming in pain.
Victor dropped to his knees, blind from the light, clutching his ears.
A heavy, measured pair of footsteps echoed across the stone.
When Victor’s vision finally cleared, he found himself staring up into the cold, dark eyes of Julian Ashworth. Beside Julian stood seventy pounds of lathered, snarling Belgian Malinois.
"You have a very poor sense of timing, Victor," Julian said smoothly.
Victor gasped, scrambling backward against his car tire. "Ashworth! Wait! We can make a deal! I'll give you fifty percent of the Chicago docks!"
"I don't want your docks, Victor," Julian said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a heavy steel padlocked box and dropped it onto the hood of Victor's sedan. "I want you to leave my state, leave my people alone, and spend the rest of your short life wondering when my dog will come back for the rest of you."
Julian didn't shoot him. He didn't need to.
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Behind Victor's cars, four state trooper cruisers pulled up the driveway, their red and blue lights flashing bright against the wet trees. The officers stepped out with hand restraints drawn.
Victor Vance was dragged away in chains, his syndicate destroyed, his empire shattered, and his freedom gone forever—all because he had underestimated a mafia boss who cared about his maid's toddler.
