Chapter 12
By nightfall, the Bellacorte mountain lodge was fortified to maximum security capacity. Armored SUVs continuously patrolled the winding mountain roads, and dozens of elite snipers were positioned deep within the pine forest surrounding the frozen lake. Richard was not a man who gambled with his bloodline. He refused to take any more risks, especially when the lives of Noah and Sarah were being targeted by an invisible threat.
While Sarah was upstairs in the master suite reading Noah a bedtime story, Richard and Frank stood before a glowing tactical monitor in the subterranean command center, analyzing the fragmented signal data from Europe.
Suddenly, the estate’s perimeter alarms shrieked. Blinding red strobe lights pulsed rhythmically across the timber corridors.
"Report! Breach at the West Gate!" a perimeter guard screamed over the radio network. "Not vehicular! A squad of hostiles using powered paragliders just touched down on the glass roof of the conservatory!"
Richard drew his heavy custom pistol from his shoulder holster, his rugged face hardening into a mask of absolute, terrifying violence. "They dare attack the heart of my territory? Frank, lock down the grand staircase! Nothing breathes on the second floor!"
But the strike team wasn't aiming for the family quarters upstairs. Deafening gunfire erupted from the ground floor—specifically from the estate's private gallery, the archive room housing the Bellacorte family's oldest historical records.
Richard, Frank, and a five-man rapid response team surged down the west corridor. Thick, acrid smoke billowed from flashbang grenades. The heavy oak doors of the gallery had been blown off their hinges with C4.
"Put them down!" Richard roared.
Lethal muzzle flashes illuminated the smoke-filled gallery. Richard’s forces provided overwhelming, disciplined firepower. Three intruders, clad in advanced white winter-camouflage tactical gear, were gunned down instantly, their blood pooling rapidly on the polished marble floor. The fourth man—evidently the squad leader—took a high-caliber round to the thigh and collapsed beside a shattered glass display case.
Richard strode through the clearing smoke, his polished leather boot coming down hard on the bleeding assassin's chest, pinning him to the floor. Richard pressed the hot barrel of his pistol directly against the man's forehead.
"Who holds your leash?" Richard demanded, his voice devoid of all mercy. "Morelli has retreated. Mark has been removed. Who paid you to die in my house?"
The assassin ripped off his white ski mask, laughing maniacally through blood-stained teeth. He didn't speak English; he spat out a guttural curse in a heavy Sicilian dialect.
"You can't protect the boy, Bellacorte. Latitude 47 has been opened."
Before Richard could extract another word, the assassin bit down violently on his own collar. A concealed cyanide capsule ruptured. Within seconds, the man convulsed and died, white foam spilling from his lips.
Richard scowled, looking down at the shattered glass display case the assassin had been desperately trying to reach. The case was empty, save for a few shards of glass.
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"Boss," Frank stepped forward, his face pale. "That was the display case holding your late father's old nautical logbooks."
"Yes," Richard stood up, his dark eyes narrowing as the primal fury of a syndicate boss flared to life. "They didn't come to assassinate us. They came for navigation routes. My father was a smuggler who ran the deep Atlantic lines. And if my memory serves me... his most secretive route tracked precisely along Latitude 47."
