On Easter Sunday, My Daughter Whispered, "Dad... Please Come Get Me"—Nine Minutes Later, Federal Agents Surrounded Her Husband's Mansion / Chapter 18 / 20

Chapter 18 - The Shadow of DeathThe chaos inside the compound was absolute.

Without the central generator, the electronic locks on the heavy steel gates had defaulted to their manual override state. I didn't need to blow the gates; I simply scaled the twelve-foot concrete wall using a grappling hook wrapped in sound-dampening felt.

I dropped silently into the shadows of the motor pool.

"Keep firing!" a cartel lieutenant shouted from the guard tower above me. "Don't let him move!"

I drew a suppressed pistol from my drop-leg holster. I didn't even look up. I raised the weapon, calculated the angle through the steel grating of the tower, and fired twice.

The lieutenant stopped shouting, collapsing heavily onto the grated floor above.

I moved forward. The Bloodhound was out there, somewhere in the courtyard, hunting for my heat signature. I had to move faster than his logic could process.

I slipped through the archway of the main villa. Two sicarios were rushing down the hallway, shouting in panicked Spanish. I stepped out from the shadows, grabbing the first man by the throat and driving my tactical knife into his carotid artery. As he fell, I used his body as a human shield, raising my MP7 over his shoulder and firing a single burst into the second man's chest.

They both hit the floor without making a sound.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

A shadow shifted at the far end of the corridor. It wasn't a panicked sicario. It was a calculated, perfectly balanced silhouette holding a rifle aimed directly at my chest.

The Bloodhound.

He fired.

I threw myself sideways, the bullet missing my ear by a fraction of an inch and burying itself in the plaster wall. I rolled across the expensive marble floor, coming up behind a heavy oak pillar as a second and third shot splintered the wood inches from my face.

"I know who you are, Pendelton!" The Bloodhound's voice echoed down the hallway. Calm. Cold. Professional. "You're a legend in the PMC community. But you're old. You're out of practice. And you're trapped in a hallway with a man who does this for a living!"

"You talk too much for a professional," I called back, my voice completely devoid of adrenaline.

I didn't peek out. I pulled a flashbang from my tactical vest, pulled the pin, and bounced it hard against the opposite wall. It deflected off the plaster and rolled down the corridor toward him.

The Bloodhound was smart. He turned away and covered his eyes before the detonation.

Bang!

The blinding light filled the hallway, but I didn't charge him. I knew he would expect that. He would blind-fire down the center of the corridor.

Instead, I shot the heavy crystal chandelier hanging directly above his position.

The suppressive fire he unleashed went wild as the massive fixture tore free from the ceiling. A hundred pounds of glass and brass crashed down on top of him, driving him to the floor in a shower of shattered crystal.

I stepped out from cover, closing the distance in three long strides.

The Bloodhound tried to raise his sidearm, blood pouring down his forehead.

I kicked the gun from his hand, placed the muzzle of my MP7 against his tactical vest, and fired a three-round burst that shattered his ceramic plates and everything behind them.

The mercenary let out a wet gasp, his eyes going wide before rolling back into his head.