Chapter 14 - The Fortress on the Cliff
Kings Point rose like an impenetrable citadel above the black,
churning waters of Long Island Sound.
The estate of Dmitri Kolov occupied five secluded acres at the very tip of the peninsula,
surrounded by sixteen-foot stone walls,
anti-climb razor wire,
and state-of-the-art seismic motion detectors.
Inside the private harbor,
a ninety-foot yacht sat tethered to the concrete dock,
its engines idling with a low,
vibrating rumble that stirred the dark water.
Up on the cliff,
the main residence,
a monstrous mansion of dark granite and bulletproof glass,
was illuminated by sweeping halogen security spotlights.
Dmitri Kolov stood in the center of his private command center on the third floor,
strapping a Kevlar tactical vest over his black turtleneck sweater.
His face was sunken,
his eyes wild with exhaustion and rage,
his silver hair disheveled.
On the table before him lay three loaded automatic pistols,
a tactical assault rifle,
and a satellite radio connecting him to his private flight crew.
Standing around him were eight men,
the remnant of his elite personal guard.
These were not street enforcers;
these were cold-eyed veterans of the Chechen and Afghan conflicts,
armed with suppressors,
thermal vision goggles,
and military-grade body armor.
“The helicopter is thirty minutes out,
General,”
the lead mercenary,
a hulking man named Yuri,
reported in Russian.
“The weather is worsening.
Fog is rolling in from the Sound.
If we do not lift off before midnight,
the airspace over Long Island will be grounded.”
Kolov slammed his fist onto the mahogany map table.
“How did he take Brighton Beach?”
Kolov roared,
spittle flying from his lips.
“Rostova had thirty men!
We had armored emplacements!
How does one man and a handful of Sicilian dogs tear through my entire organization in forty-eight hours?”
Yuri remained impassive,
adjusting the sling of his rifle.
“They are not just Sicilians,
General,”
Yuri answered quietly.
“Castellano brought ex-special service contractors,
the entire dockworker union,
and every corrupt badge in New York.
He is not fighting a gang war.
He is conducting an extermination.”
Before Kolov could reply,
the main power grid of the Kings Point estate died.
The humming halogen spotlights extinguished in a single,
abrupt snap,
plunging the entire five-acre compound into absolute,
pitch-black darkness.
A second later,
the high-pitched whine of the backup diesel generators kicked on,
flickering emergency red lights to life along the corridors.
Then,
the perimeter alarms screamed.
Not a gentle,
intermittent warning,
but the continuous,
deafening wail of the entire northern and eastern fence lines being breached simultaneously.
Yuri drew his weapon,
barking commands into his tactical headset.
“Perimeter team!
Report!
Gate one,
what is your status?”
Static hissed over the radio,
followed by the frantic,
shrieking voice of a sentry at the outer gatehouse.
“They didn't use the gate!
They blew the sea wall!
Boats!
Dozens of black tactical zodiacs coming up from the rocks!
They have high-caliber snipers—!”
A sharp,
suppressed crack echoed through the radio,
and the sentry’s transmission was swallowed by the flat drone of an open channel.
“Move to the roof!”
Kolov shouted,
snatching his rifle from the table,
fear finally shattering the last remnants of his arrogance.
“Cover the helipad!
Kill anything that breaches the stairs!”
Down below,
on the rocky shoreline beneath the cliffs,
I stepped out of a military-grade assault boat,
my boots sinking into the wet shingle.
Santino and Marco were already scaling the reinforced steel ladders that our tactical divers had hooked onto the retaining wall above.
I climbed the cliff with steady,
unhurried precision,
ignoring the freezing spray of the Atlantic against my face.
When I crested the wall,
the garden of the Kings Point estate was already a killing ground.
Santino’s teams,
moving in total darkness using advanced night-vision optics,
were cutting through Kolov’s outer guards with terrifying efficiency.
There were no battle cries.
There was no hesitation.
Every corner was cleared,
every bunker neutralized,
every sentry put down before they could acquire a target in the darkness.
Marco reached the heavy,
reinforced double doors of the mansion’s rear entrance.
He attached a shaped breaching charge of C4 plastic explosive around the electronic lock mechanism,
stepping back around the stone pillar.
“Fire in the hole,”
Marco muttered,
depressing the detonator.
The explosion blew the heavy steel doors inward with a concussive shockwave that shattered every window on the ground floor.
We entered the fortress.
Inside,
the air was thick with plaster dust and the acrid smell of burnt explosive compound.
Two Russian mercenaries leaned over the second-floor mezzanine,
opening fire with automatic carbines,
bullets chewing up the marble floor at our feet.
Marco did not flinch.
He stepped forward,
raising his combat shotgun,
and fired two thunderous rounds that blasted through the balustrade,
tearing the shooters from the balcony and sending them crashing onto the grand piano below.
I continued up the central grand staircase,
walking through the drifting smoke,
my eyes locked on the heavy iron doors leading to the third-floor penthouse suite.
A wounded Russian guard lay against the wall,
clutching his bleeding shoulder,
trying desperately to raise a sidearm.
I did not even break stride.
My foot came down on his wrist,
crushing the delicate bones with a sickening crack,
kicking the weapon down the stairs behind me.
I stopped before the final door.
Beyond the heavy timber,
I could hear the frantic shouting of Dmitri Kolov,
cursing his pilots,
cursing New York,
cursing the day he had ever set eyes on a woman wearing the Castellano crest.
I looked at Marco,
who was already setting a second breaching charge against the hinges.
“No,”
I commanded softly,
raising a hand to stop him.
“This door I open myself.”
I drew my custom-machined semi-automatic pistol,
stepped back half a pace,
and kicked the lock with the full,
unfiltered fury of my ancestors.
The heavy wood splintered inward with a violent crack,
May you like
rebounding against the wall,
and I stepped into the room where the master of the Russian underworld awaited his judgment.
