Chapter 42 - Blood in the Vines
They had exactly twelve minutes before the strike team arrived.
Victor Vance was a creature of theatrical vengeance. He wouldn't just send an assassin in the night; he would want to burn Maxwell’s new life to the ground, just as Maxwell had burned the estate.
"Grab the go-bags," Maxwell ordered, pulling a heavy duffel from beneath the floorboards in the pantry. Inside were suppressed submachine guns, spare magazines, burner phones, and fifty thousand euros in untraceable cash. They had hoped to never open it. They had trained for the day they might have to.
Martha didn't panic. She moved through the villa like a ghost, changing out of her sundress and into dark, tactical clothing in seconds. She strapped a holster to her thigh, checking the chamber of her 9mm with practiced efficiency.
"Perimeter sensors triggered," Maxwell said, watching the encrypted feed on his tablet. "Three vehicles approaching from the south road. Heavily armed."
"We can't hold the villa," Martha said, throwing a duffel bag over her shoulder. "It's glass and plaster. We need to move into the vineyard."
They slipped out the back door just as the front gates were violently rammed open by a heavy armored SUV. Armed mercenaries poured into the courtyard, their tactical lights slicing through the driving rain.
Maxwell and Martha vanished into the endless rows of grapevines, the thick summer foliage and the torrential downpour providing perfect cover. The mud sucked at their boots as they sprinted toward the rocky hills bordering the property, where a hidden dirt bike was stashed in an old shepherd's cave.
Behind them, the sound of shattered glass echoed over the thunder. The mercenaries had breached the house.
"They're tracking us," Martha hissed, dropping into a crouch beneath a canopy of thick vines. A drone buzzed overhead, its red optical sensor cutting through the rain.
Maxwell didn't hesitate. He raised his suppressed rifle and fired a single shot. The drone exploded in a shower of sparks, crashing into the mud.
"Contact!" a voice yelled in Russian from the darkness behind them.
Gunfire erupted. Tracers tore through the vineyard, shredding the ancient vines and showering Maxwell and Martha in splinters and pulverized grapes.
"Go! I'll cover!" Martha yelled, rolling to her left and returning fire with deadly accuracy. Two mercenaries dropped, their cries swallowed by the storm.
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Maxwell laid down a heavy barrage of suppressing fire, allowing Martha to leapfrog past him. They moved in perfect synchronization, a lethal ballet born from absolute trust. They reached the shepherd's cave, the heavy iron gate groaning as Maxwell hauled it open.
As they kick-started the dirt bike and roared out of the cave, the mercenaries fired an incendiary rocket into the villa below. Maxwell watched in the rearview mirror as their peaceful sanctuary erupted into a massive fireball against the dark Spanish sky. The war had found them again.
