Chapter 8 - Breaching the Citadel
Thirty seconds earlier, the heavy wrought-iron security gates of the Sterling compound had been locked shut, their gilded crests gleaming in the morning sun.
The Suburban had hit them at fifty-five miles per hour.
The steel ram had shattered the electronic gate posts like dry twigs, shearing the hinges and sending the heavy iron doors spinning into the manicured rhododendron bushes. Marcus didn't touch the brakes. The massive SUV roared up the winding circular cobblestone driveway, kicking up clouds of gravel, before sliding to a sideways stop directly in front of the grand double-entry oak doors.
The engine was still revving when the driver's side door flew open.
Marcus hit the ground with the coiled, lethal economy of motion found only in men who had survived close-quarters combat. He wore heavy tactical boots, a charcoal windbreaker over body armor, and a gaze that burned with unadulterated fury. Deacon was out the other side a second later, carrying a thirty-pound steel battering ram in two gloved hands.
"Door is three-inch solid red oak," Deacon said, assessing the entryway in half a second.
"Hit it," Marcus commanded.
Deacon swung the ram with the full momentum of his broad shoulders. The heavy steel head struck the lockplate with the sound of a cannon shot. The deadbolts gave way instantly, splintering the hardwood frame.
May you like
Marcus stepped through the shattered entrance before the splinters even hit the foyer tile.
"CLARA!" Marcus's voice tore through the palatial estate—not a scream of panic, but the terrifying roar of an apex predator claiming territory.
