Chapter 6 - The Battle of Mercer Manor
At midnight, the storm hit its peak. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the high stone walls surrounding the Mercer Estate.
Four dark, un-marked armored vans pulled onto the quiet residential road leading to the main gates. Twelve heavily armed mercenaries dressed in dark tactical gear stepped out, holding suppressed automatic rifles and thermal breaching charges.
Inside the lead van sat Arthur Sterling and Julian. Arthur held a thermal surveillance monitor, his eyes fixed on the main mansion three hundred yards up the winding driveway.
"The thermal scope shows minimal activity," Captain Miller, the mercenary commander, reported over the comms. "Two security guards in the gatehouse, four roving patrols around the main house. We breach the east perimeter fence, eliminate the guards silently, and execute the strike."
"Do it," Arthur ordered, his voice cold, devoid of any human warmth. "Leave no witnesses."
The mercenaries moved with lethal precision. They planted a silent hydraulic cutter on the iron security fence, stepping onto the estate grounds like shadows in the night. They breached the gatehouse, knocking out the two private guards, and advanced toward the grand glass entrance of the mansion.
"Breaching charge set on the front doors," Miller reported, placing a rectangular plastic explosive charge on the heavy double doors. "3... 2... 1... Detonating!"
BOOM!
The glass front doors exploded inward in a shower of brilliant sparks and heavy smoke. The twelve mercenaries rushed into the grand foyer, their automatic weapons raised, sweeping their flashlights across the priceless marble floors and grand staircases.
"Clear ground floor!" a mercenary shouted.
"Clear the east wing!" another called out.
Suddenly, heavy iron security shutters slammed down over every window and doorway in the mansion with a deafening metallic crash—CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The entire mansion was instantly sealed in a bank-vault-grade titanium lockdown.
"What the hell?!" Captain Miller yelled, spinning around. "Breach the shutters! Breach them!"
Before the mercenaries could plant another charge, the massive crystal chandelier hanging sixty feet above the foyer suddenly illuminated with a blinding, ten-thousand-lumen floodlight.
The mercenaries covered their eyes, screaming in disorientation.
From the top of the grand marble staircase, Grant Mercer stepped out of the shadows.
He stood dressed in full tactical gear, holding a heavy combat shotgun, flanked by six elite operators from Marcus Vance’s team. Behind them, on the high interior balconies, stood eight additional marksmen, their red laser sights dotting the chests of every single mercenary in the foyer.
"Welcome to Mercer Manor, Captain," Grant’s voice boomed through the high-powered house intercom system, echoing off the stone walls like thunder. "You are currently surrounded by twenty former special forces operators and three federal tactical assault teams. Drop your weapons, or you will be vaporized where you stand."
Captain Miller looked down at his chest. Five overlapping red laser dots rested directly over his heart. He looked up at Grant’s cold, unblinking face.
Miller slowly dropped his automatic rifle onto the marble floor. "Stand down!" Miller shouted to his men. "Drop 'em! Drop 'em now!"
One by one, the heavy weapons clattered against the floor.
Outside the main gates, three black FBI assault trucks crashed through the perimeter fence, floodlights cutting through the heavy rain. Dozens of federal agents flooded the driveway, surrounding the lead van where Arthur and Julian Sterling sat.
CRASH!
The van doors were ripped open by tactical agents.
"FBI! GET YOUR HANDS UP! GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE NOW!"
Julian burst into hysterics, throwing his hands in the air, screaming, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! It was my father! He made me do it! It was all Arthur!"
Arthur Sterling sat frozen in his leather seat. He looked out the window.
Grant Mercer walked out through the front doors of the mansion, stepping into the blinding white beam of the federal floodlights. He stood in the pouring rain, looking down at Arthur with an expression of quiet, absolute victory.
As federal agents grabbed Arthur, pulling him out of the van and slamming his face against the wet hood, dragging his arms behind his back to click heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists, Arthur looked up at his son-in-law.
"Grant..." Arthur wheezed, his face covered in mud and rain. "Grant... please... we’re family..."
Grant walked up to him, stopping just inches from his pathetic, defeated frame. He pulled the small silver music box from his pocket and held it in front of Arthur’s face.
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"Family protects each other, Arthur," Grant said softly, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain and police sirens. "You were never family. You were just a parasite."
Grant turned on his heel, walking back into his warm, brightly lit home, leaving Arthur Sterling to be dragged away into the dark night.
