Chapter 120 - 119 Two Strange Objects
The deafening, continuous roar of automatic gunfire completely shattered the gorge. The muzzle flashes were blindingly bright against the grey, snowy backdrop. Hundreds of heavy, nine-millimeter rounds tore through the air, shredding the freezing forest into a chaotic nightmare of flying splinters and shattered ice.
The ambush was perfectly executed. The sniper had merely been the bait, designed to pin us down and draw our attention upward while the assault team closed the distance on the ground.
Two of my security men, caught entirely in the open while attempting to flank the sniper, were cut down instantly.
The heavy bursts of automatic fire ripped through their tactical vests. They were thrown to the ground like discarded ragdolls, their bodies jerking violently as the rounds found their marks. The bright, horrific red of their blood instantly soaked into the deep snow, rapidly expanding into dark, steaming pools.
"Contact front! Contact front!" Miller screamed, diving behind a cluster of jagged granite boulders.
The remaining four members of my security detail immediately returned fire. The sharp, rhythmic popping of their sidearms and compact rifles mixed with the overwhelming roar of the mercenaries’ submachine guns. Tracers zipped through the air, glowing with lethal, bright orange heat before slamming into the trees.
I pressed myself flat against the back of the massive pine tree. The mercenaries focused their primary suppression fire directly on my position.
The heavy rounds chewed through the thick bark, sending razor-sharp splinters of wood flying into my face and neck. The sheer volume of incoming fire was staggering. I was completely pinned down. If I stepped out from behind the trunk, I would be instantly shredded by a wall of lead.
The enemy’s firepower was too fierce. We were entirely outgunned and caught in a fatal crossfire.
"Sir!" Miller bellowed over the deafening roar of the gunfight. He was pinned behind the boulders, blindly firing his weapon around the edge of the stone. "You have to extract! You have to fall back to the secondary rally point right now!"
"I am not leaving my men!" I roared back, my voice vibrating with absolute, unyielding fury. I leaned around the left side of the tree, acquired a target through the iron sights of my Glock, and fired three rapid shots. One of the mercenaries flinched as a bullet sparked off his heavy ballistic shoulder armor, forcing him to duck behind a snowbank.
"You don’t have a choice, Mr. Wolfe!" Miller screamed, his voice cracking with desperate, absolute panic. "Arthur is gone! You are the sole heir! You are the only one left! If you die in this mud, the entire family falls! You have to leave! We will hold them off!"
The words hit me with the devastating force of a physical blow.
He was absolutely right. The cold, ruthless mathematics of my existence asserted themselves over my burning desire for vengeance.
I am not a coward. I am not a soft corporate executive who cowers behind his security detail. The male members of the Wolfe family are not simply handed boardrooms and trust funds. We are forged in iron. From the age of ten, I was subjected to brutal, unrelenting training. I was taught how to strip and reassemble firearms blindfolded. I was trained in lethal hand-to-hand combat by ex-special forces operatives in the basement of the Wolfe estate. My physical capabilities and tactical marksmanship far surpassed the bodyguards currently dying to protect me.
I wanted to step out from behind this tree. I wanted to march into the crossfire and execute the men who murdered my brother with extreme prejudice.
But I was no longer just the secondary son. Arthur was dead. The entire, multi-billion dollar weight of the Wolfe empire, the safety of thousands of employees, and the continuity of my family’s legacy rested entirely, squarely on my shoulders. I was the king on the chessboard. A king cannot sacrifice himself in a skirmish to save his pawns, no matter how much the decision rots his soul.
I tasted the bitter, metallic tang of absolute hatred in the back of my throat. It was the most agonizing, humiliating calculation I have ever made in my entire life.
"Covering fire!" I roared, my voice tearing through my throat. I dropped a fresh magazine into my Glock, slamming it home with the heel of my palm. "Suppress the left flank! I am falling back to the ridge!"
Miller did not hesitate. He and the remaining guards stepped out from their cover, exposing themselves to intense danger to lay down a heavy, concentrated wall of suppression fire toward the mercenaries’ position.
The incoming fire shifted slightly, drawn away from my tree toward the new threat.
It was a microscopic window of opportunity.
I pushed off the trunk of the massive pine, keeping my body incredibly low to the ground. I broke into a dead sprint, my boots tearing through the deep snow as I moved in a jagged, evasive zigzag pattern toward the safety of a deep, rocky trench twenty yards behind my position.
The sharp crunch of my boots betrayed my movement.
The mercenaries were highly trained. The moment I broke from the tree, the lead operator realized the primary high-value target was attempting to extract. He ignored the suppression fire from my guards. He stood up from his snowbank, locking his dark goggles directly onto my sprinting form.
He did not raise his submachine gun to track me. He knew I was moving too fast through the dense trees for a clean shot.
Instead, the mercenary reached down to the heavy tactical belt strapped to his waist.
With a terrifying, practiced speed, he unclipped two heavy, dark cylindrical objects. He pulled the pins with a sharp, violent jerk of his thumb. He drew his arm back, his shoulder muscles bunching beneath the white winter gear, and hurled both objects high into the freezing air directly toward my path of retreat.
Time seemed to instantly slow down into a thick, agonizing crawl.
I was ten yards away from the trench. I looked up.
The two dark cylinders sailed in a perfect, lethal arc through the falling snow, directly over my head. They were not fragmentation grenades. They lacked the distinct, ribbed texture of standard explosive ordinance. They were smooth, matte-black canisters with a single, glowing red indicator light blinking rapidly near the detonator fuse.
Behind me, Miller lowered his weapon. His face, visible between the gaps in his tactical helmet, went completely, deathly pale.
Every single security guard in the clearing stopped firing. The absolute, unadulterated terror that washed over their faces completely eclipsed the fear of the incoming bullets. They recognized the canisters.
The expressions on everyone’s faces changed drastically. The fight was over.
The two strange objects hit the snowdrift directly in front of my boots.