Chapter 15 - The Roar Of The Invincible Lion
The masked mercenaries,
heavily armed and incredibly confident in their violent surprise attack,
assumed they were dealing with standard,
incompetent corporate security guards.
They were drastically,
fatally mistaken,
because they had just ambushed the elite,
combat-hardened private army of Arthur Sterling,
a man who waged literal wars for a living.
Before the mercenaries could reload their high-capacity magazines to finish destroying our cracked windshield,
the back doors of the third,
rear SUV exploded open with terrifying,
calculated precision.
Six Sterling operatives,
moving with the lethal,
synchronized grace of highly trained apex predators,
flanked the attackers,
unleashing a devastating,
pinpoint accurate barrage of counter-fire.
The deafening roar of automatic weapons echoed across the rain-soaked highway,
as the attackers quickly realized they were entirely,
hopelessly outmatched.
Within forty-five terrifying,
chaotic seconds,
eight of the mercenaries were lying motionless on the wet asphalt,
while the remaining four frantically threw down their weapons,
dropping to their knees in absolute,
abject surrender.
Through the spider-webbed,
shattered glass of my window,
I saw the twisted,
smoking wreckage of the lead SUV,
and my heart completely stopped in my chest.
"Dad!"
I screamed hysterically,
reaching for the locked door handle,
terrified that the incredible man who had saved my life was dead.
Suddenly,
the crushed door of the lead SUV was violently kicked open from the inside,
the heavy metal groaning and snapping under immense,
furious pressure.
My father climbed out of the wreckage,
blood streaming down his forehead from a deep gash,
his expensive suit torn and covered in broken glass,
but his eyes were blazing with an unholy,
apocalyptic fire.
He was not just a wealthy businessman anymore,
he was the terrifying,
four-star general who had commanded armies,
a literal god of war walking amongst mere,
trembling mortals.
He ignored his own severe injuries,
marching furiously through the pouring rain toward the four surviving mercenaries,
his boots crunching loudly over the shattered glass and spent bullet casings.
One of the captured men,
bleeding heavily from a shoulder wound,
looked up at my father,
his eyes widening in absolute,
paralyzing terror as he realized the true magnitude of his mistake.
My father grabbed the man by the tactical vest,
lifting him effortlessly off the wet pavement with one hand,
slamming him violently against the side of the black van.
"Who ordered the strike?"
my father roared,
his voice carrying over the sound of the pouring rain and the distant,
wailing police sirens,
a sound that promised unimaginable,
endless agony.
The mercenary choked,
gasping for air,
his arrogant demeanor completely shattered by the overwhelming,
lethal presence of Arthur Sterling.
"Vance!"
the man choked out,
spitting blood onto the highway,
"Julian Vance ordered the hit,"
"he said to take the boy alive,"
"he said to kill everyone else!"
My father dropped the man onto the ground like a piece of worthless garbage,
his terrifying,
blood-stained face turning slowly toward my vehicle,
ensuring that Julian and I were safe.
When he saw that we were unharmed,
a cold,
dark,
and incredibly dangerous smile spread across his bruised face,
a smile that made the blood freeze in my veins.
"Julian Vance,"
my father whispered to himself,
the name tasting like bitter poison on his tongue,
a ghost from a dark,
buried past that had finally returned to haunt him.
The police finally arrived on the scene,
dozens of cruisers swarming the highway,
but they did not arrest my father's men,
because the chief of police worked for the Sterling empire.
We were quickly,
quietly transferred into a fresh,
heavily armored vehicle,
and driven back to the absolute safety of the estate,
the emergency medical crisis handled by our own private,
on-staff trauma doctors.
Later that night,
after Julian was safely asleep in his fortified,
heavily guarded bedroom,
I found my father standing in his dark study,
staring at a wall of complex,
interconnected tactical maps.
He had already ordered a massive,
nationwide manhunt for Eleanor Davis,
who had foolishly accepted the bribe and endangered my child,
guaranteeing that she would not survive the week.
"Who is Julian Vance, Dad?"
I asked softly,
standing in the doorway,
my body still aching from the sheer,
exhausting terror of the highway ambush.
My father did not turn around,
his hands gripping the edge of the mahogany desk so tightly that his knuckles were entirely white.
"He is a ghost, sweetheart,"
my father replied grimly,
his voice heavy with a dark,
ancient regret,
"a rival billionaire with unlimited resources,"
"and a man who believes I stole his empire thirty years ago."
"He used Carter,"
my father continued,
"he used Eleanor,"
"and he tried to take my grandson,"
"which means he has officially crossed the final,
unforgivable line."
My father finally turned to look at me,
his eyes burning with a terrifying,
absolute resolve,
the wrath of the hidden empire fully,
and permanently,
awakened.
"Rest tonight, Clara,"
my father commanded gently,
finally speaking my given name,
a name I had hidden for so many years.
"Because tomorrow,"
he promised,
his voice echoing with the absolute certainty of death,
May you like
"we are going to burn Julian Vance's entire world to ashes,"
"and we will bury Carter Davis so deep in the ground,"
