Chapter 4 - The Tactical Response
The tactical team didn't knock.
When you pay a private security firm fifty thousand dollars a month for tier-one executive protection, they don't ring the doorbell. They hit the breach points with military precision.
The remaining two thugs near the shattered doorway didn't even have time to pull the concealed firearms from their waistbands. A deafening flash-bang grenade rolled across the entryway floor, detonating with a blinding white magnesium flare and a concussive shockwave that rattled the thirty-fifth-floor windows.
BANG-FLASH.
The two enforcers dropped instantly, clutching their ears, blinded and disoriented, as four heavily armed operatives in matte-black body armor swarmed through the ruined doorway like angry hornets.
“Down on the ground! Do it now! Hands behind your head!”
The lead bald man froze, his crowbar half-raised, blinking frantically against the lingering burn of the flash-bang. Before he could react, a massive tactical operator slammed him face-first into the glass coffee table, shattering it into a thousand glittering diamonds of safety glass. Plastic zip-ties clicked tightly around his wrists with ruthless efficiency.
Within thirty seconds, the living room of my penthouse was secured. Three dangerous enforcers from the West Side syndicate were zip-tied and pinned face-down against my custom wool rugs.
One of the tactical officers—a scarred veteran named Sergeant Miller whom I had known for years—stepped over the debris, walked up to me, and gave a sharp, professional nod.
“You alright, Ms. Vance?” Miller asked, his voice muffled slightly by his communications headset.
“I’m fine, Miller,” I said, exhaling a long, slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I picked up my phone from the floor where it had dropped. Marcus was still shouting frantically through the speaker.
“Marcus,” I said calmly, holding the phone to my ear. “I’m here. The private QRF just neutralized the intruders.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. “Neutralized? Maya, are you injured? Do I need to fly in?”
“No. But I need you to accelerate phase two of our plan,” I replied, looking down at the bald man groaning against the shattered glass of my coffee table. “My family thinks they can throw me out with a trash bag and leave me to starve? It’s time to show them what happens when the parasite cuts off the host permanently.”
Miller looked down at the thugs, then up at me. “What do you want us to do with these three, ma’am?”
“Call the Chicago PD financial crimes division,” I instructed coldly. “Hand them over along with the Apex Capital loan documents they conveniently brought with them. Tell Detective Vance—no relation—that these men are tied directly to my father’s illegal offshore shell accounts. Let the federal investigators sort them out.”
“Copy that,” Miller muttered, gesturing to his men to haul the struggling thugs to their feet.
As the enforcers were dragged out through the splintered doorway of my penthouse, the bald man spat blood onto my floor and glared back at me with unadulterated venom.
“Your old man is still broke, sweetheart,” he snarled through bruised lips. “And your family is sitting out on the curb right now with their luggage. The bank took the mansion this morning. Nobody’s saving them.”
May you like
I walked slowly to the threshold, leaning against the splintered doorframe, looking down at him with an expression of supreme, unbothered indifference.
“I know,” I said softly. “That’s the beauty of it.”
