Chapter 134 The Ambush
The local authorities officially called off the search on the eighth day, claiming there was nothing left to find.
Dorian completely ignored them.
He flatly refused to leave the Silvermist Mountains. He set up a makeshift base camp on the frozen ground right at the foot of the high cliffs, spending his own money to hire experienced local guides who knew every inch of the rough terrain. Day after day, he sat in the cockpit of his helicopter, flying back and forth through the treacherous mountain passes, refusing to stop scanning the white landscape below.
The police had told him repeatedly that it was completely hopeless. The plane had shattered on impact, spreading wreckage over miles. The survival rate in this freezing weather was zero, and the chances of finding his brother alive did not exist.
Dorian did not care what they thought.
He clung desperately to a tiny sliver of hope. As long as there was no body, it meant Percy could still be out there somewhere. He could be severely injured, trapped under debris, or freezing, just waiting for his brother to come get him.
Dorian had to find him. He could not leave him behind.
Days quickly dragged into weeks, and the weather only got worse. Thick snow fell constantly, burying their old tracks, while brutal winds howled through the deep stone valleys.
Still, Dorian pushed himself and his team to keep searching.
Then, on the seventeenth day, a local guide came running through the snow toward the base camp tents, gasping for air.
"Mr. Thorne!" the guide shouted, his voice hoarse from the freezing air. "We found something! A body! Over near the eastern ridge!"
Dorian’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
He dropped the heavy paper map he was holding straight into the snow and took off running toward the ridge as fast as his legs could carry him.
The body was lying facedown in a deep snowbank near a jagged rock wall.
It was wearing a dark, heavy suit that was torn to shreds from the crash. The arms were stretched out awkwardly in front of it, half-buried in the snow, but one wrist remained visible.
Dorian fell to his knees in the icy dirt beside the body. His hands were shaking so violently he could barely move his fingers.
He reached out, his breath hitching in his throat, and gently turned the cold, frozen wrist over to see the underside.
A sleek silver watch rested against the pale skin.
Dorian felt the air leave his lungs all at once.
He recognized that watch instantly. He had bought it himself and given it to Percy for his thirty-second birthday. He knew every tiny detail of it, including the deep engraving on the back: To my brother. Always.
The last tiny piece of hope inside Dorian completely vanished, leaving him entirely hollow.
He sat on his knees in the freezing snow, staring down at the cracked glass of the watch face. The metal hands were frozen in place, forever marking the exact second the plane had hit the mountain.
He had been so wrong. Percy had not been waiting for him. He had been dead from the very beginning, and Dorian had just been too stubborn and blind to accept the reality of it.
Dorian slowly lowered his head, pressing his forehead against his trembling hands.
CRACK!
A sharp gunshot shattered the quiet air.
The bullet whistled right past Dorian’s ear with a terrifying hiss, slamming into the hard ground just inches from his knee.
Instinct kicked in immediately. Dorian threw his body to the side, rolling across the snow and scrambling behind a massive granite boulder. His hand flew to his belt, yanking his heavy pistol from its holster.
A second shot rang out, even closer this time, chipping fragments off the rock above his head.
Over near the landing pad, Kaelen was standing beside the helicopter. Suddenly, his body jerked violently backward. His hand flew to his chest, blood spurting between his fingers, and he collapsed onto the frozen ground without a sound.
Dorian’s eyes went wide with horror. "Kaelen!"
Kaelen did not move. He lay still in the snow, the red puddle expanding rapidly around him.
Dorian’s blood ran ice-cold. He forced himself to push the grief out of his mind and focus on staying alive. He pressed his back flat against the rock, his eyes scanning the dense line of pine trees across the ridge.
A tiny flash of light caught his eye, a quick glint of glass reflecting the dull sunlight.
A sniper scope. Someone was hiding up in the high tree branches about twenty meters away.
Dorian’s grip tightened around the handle of his gun until his hand hurt.
He did not hesitate.
He broke into a sprint, diving from boulder to boulder to keep his head down as more bullets kicked up ice around his feet. His heavy boots crunched loudly against the hard ground, his chest burning as he sucked in the freezing air.
Within seconds, he reached the thick trunk of the massive tree.
Looking up, he could see the long dark barrel of a rifle sticking out between the branches. The shooter was already moving, trying to pack up his gear and climb down to escape into the woods.
Dorian raised his pistol, aiming high, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The bullet smashed right into the thick tree branch just inches from the sniper’s hand, showering the man in wood splinters.
"Don’t you dare move!" Dorian barked, his voice booming through the woods.
The shooter froze up completely, his body locking up against the tree trunk.
"Get down here," Dorian commanded, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion. "Slowly, or the next one goes through your skull."
The sniper slowly let go of his rifle, letting it drop into the deep snow below, before carefully climbing down the lower branches.
Dorian kept his gun pointed directly at the man’s chest the entire time, his hands completely steady now.
"Who sent you here?" Dorian growled, stepping closer.
The sniper just stared at him with cold eyes, keeping his mouth shut tight.
Dorian’s jaw set hard. "I asked you a question. Who—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a heavy spray of automatic gunfire erupted from the bushes right behind him.
Three large men stepped out from the dense treeline, their boots stomping through the snow.
They were foreign mercenaries, muscular and heavily armed with black submachine guns. Their faces were totally hidden behind thick tactical masks, leaving only their dark eyes visible.
They didn’t say a word; they just raised their weapons and opened fire on everything that moved.
Dorian dove sideways behind a flat rock just in time. Streamers of lead tore through the air, bullets ricocheting off the hard stone with deafening pops and sending razor-sharp rock chips flying into his face.
Two of Dorian’s surviving men were caught in the open. The heavy rounds tore through their jackets, knocking them backward into the snow. They hit the ground hard and did not get back up.
The rest of Dorian’s security team quickly returned fire, the loud pops of handguns mixing with the heavy chatter of the automatic rifles. The quiet mountain air was instantly ruined, filling with the bitter smell of burnt gunpowder and thick gray smoke.
These mercenaries were not random thugs. They moved with absolute precision, backing each other up and taking cover with disciplined ease. They were seasoned professionals, trained to kill.
Dorian’s remaining men were completely outgunned and surrounded.
One of his guards ducked behind the same rock, blood streaming down the side of his face. "Mr. Thorne! You have to get out of here right now! We can’t hold them off!"
Dorian shook his head firmly, reloading his pistol with a fresh magazine. "I am not running away and leaving you guys to die."
"Sir, listen to me!" the guard pleaded, grabbing Dorian’s jacket to get his attention. "You are the next head of the Thorne family now! Your brother is gone! If you die on this mountain today, the whole family falls apart!"
Dorian’s jaw tightened as the words hit him like a physical blow.
He hated to admit it, but the man was entirely right. With Percy gone, the entire weight of the Thorne family legacy rested squarely on his shoulders. If he caught a bullet here, everything his family had built over generations would crumble into absolute chaos.
Yet leaving his loyal men behind went against every single thing he stood for. He hated the idea of running like a coward.
The heavy gunfire grew louder and closer. The mercenaries were advancing systematically, pressing their advantage as they moved through the trees.
Another one of Dorian’s guards dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder as his handgun fell into the snow.
"Sir! Please!" the injured guard screamed over the noise. "Go!"
Dorian squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, his hand gripping his pistol so tight his skin went pale.
He was no coward. He had been trained in combat since he was a young boy. He knew how to aim, how to shoot, and how to kill without hesitation. But looking at the tactical setup in front of him, he knew pure military math was against them. He could not win a firefight against automatic rifles with a simple handgun.
He let out a sharp breath, forcing himself to make the logical choice.
"Cover me," Dorian ordered, looking his guard in the eye. "I am pulling back to the chopper."
The guard nodded grimly. "Understood, sir."
The remaining men popped out from behind their cover, firing a wild, desperate barrage of bullets to force the mercenaries to duck behind the trees.
Taking advantage of the brief opening, Dorian took off running. He sprinted toward the clearing where the helicopter was parked, his heavy boots pounding against the frozen earth. His legs were burning from the effort, and his lungs felt like they were filled with crushed ice, but he did not slow down for a second.
He reached the side of the aircraft, yanked the cabin door open, and scrambled into the pilot’s seat.
With his hands trembling slightly, he flipped the master switches and slapped the starter.
The heavy engine groaned, coming back to life with a high-pitched whine as the big rotor blades overhead slowly started to spin around.
Over in the tree line, the mercenaries immediately noticed the rising noise of the engine.
One of the masked men turned toward the clearing and pointed a heavy gloved hand straight at the cockpit, shouting a harsh command in a foreign language Dorian could not understand.
They had no intention of letting him get off the ground alive.
Two of the mercenaries quickly reached into the front pouches of their tactical vests, pulling out small, dark metal objects. They were smooth, heavy, and shaped like small cylinders.
Without hesitating, the two men pulled the pins with their teeth and hurled the metal objects high into the air.
The heavy cylinders sailed through the freezing wind, tracking a direct arch straight toward the spinning rotor blades and the open cockpit of the helicopter.
Dorian’s eyes widened in absolute horror as he recognized what was flying through the air.
Every single man left alive on that clearing froze in place, their expressions twisting into pure terror as they watched the explosives hurtle toward the aircraft.