Not for himself, but for the men in those SUVs. Men driving straight into the devil’s front yard to pull his teeth. Twenty miles away, in a glittering banquet hall, a tall silver-haired man lifted a glass of expensive cognac.
“Here’s to keeping this world by the throat,” said the man known as the Architect, while his guests murmured approval. He had no idea that his empire was already starting to collapse. He did not know that the hand closing around his own throat wore tactical gloves.
The black SUVs flew down the highway in tight formation, slicing through the dark. In the lead vehicle, with an experienced operator at the wheel, the silence was electric.
The cabin smelled of leather, cologne, and weapon oil. The contrast struck Warren as almost funny in a grim way—criminal luxury and military purpose packed into the same space. They were riding in the enemy’s vehicles under the enemy’s plates to tear down the enemy’s world.
The major checked his magazine again, though he had already done it three times in ten minutes. It was an old habit, a ritual that helped him focus before a breach. He stared through the tinted glass at the passing trees and ran the plan again in his head.
They had no floor plans and no exact count of armed security inside. What they had was a glowing map pin and the kind of professional nerve that borders on madness. Empire—that was the club’s grand name.
A place where local power brokers liked to feel untouchable. Warren gave a crooked little smile to himself. “Not tonight,” he thought.
His earpiece crackled. “Lead, this is Bravo. About two miles out. I can see the lights from here. Looks like they decorated the place for Christmas.”
“Copy, Bravo,” Warren said. “We stick to the script. We’re expected guests.”
“Pull straight to the main gate. No sudden moves until I call it. Keep weapons low and out of sight.” The convoy slowed as it approached the first layer of security.
Around the next bend, the glow of the compound came into view. A high brick wall topped with cameras and razor wire enclosed a large property. Behind it stood a three-story mansion blazing with party lights.
Heavy bass from the music could already be heard from the road. As they neared the wrought-iron gate, Warren took in the setup. This was no sleepy gatehouse. It was a proper checkpoint with barriers and armed guards.
Two thick-necked men in camouflage stood watch with rifles slung over their shoulders. Clearly, the Architect took his personal safety seriously. “Window down,” Warren told the driver, pulling a balaclava over his face and leaving only his eyes visible.
The lead SUV rolled to a smooth stop at the striped gate arm. One of the guards, a big man with a bull neck, stepped out of the warm booth and approached lazily. He recognized Butcher’s vehicle right away and expected no trouble.
He didn’t even unsling his rifle. He just walked up to the driver’s side, ready to greet a familiar face. The tinted window slid down slowly, and loud pop music blasted from the interior. The driver had turned the radio up on purpose to cover any sudden noise…
