Clean cuts.
Professional execution.
I stepped out of the SUV before it fully stopped.
Boots crunched over gravel.
One glance.
That was all it took to confirm — this wasn’t random.
This was targeted.
Calculated.
I vaulted over the low security wall instead of wasting time with the broken gate.
Glock drawn.
Suppressor already screwed in.
My men spread out behind me, forming a tight perimeter as we advanced.
The house loomed ahead.
Dark.
Silent.
Wrong.
There were no floodlights sweeping the grounds.
No guards patrolling the perimeter.
No alarms screaming.
Just the faint rustle of wind through the eucalyptus trees and the metallic scent of blood hanging in the air like a warning.
I approached the front doors.
Or what remained of them.
The titanium-core panels had been ripped from their frame — hinges sheared clean, security system destroyed by force.
Splinters and metal fragments littered the entryway.
I stepped inside.
The foyer reeked of cordite, copper, and fear.
My boots pressed into blood.
Red streaks dragged across the marble floor — long smear trails leading deeper into the house.
Someone had been dragged.
Or forced to crawl.
