Chapter 13
The firefight in the penthouse was a claustrophobic nightmare of shattered glass and blinding muzzle flashes. Vance’s men were professional, but they had severely underestimated Michael’s resolve and Marcus’s elite training. Half of the retrieval team was already down, their dark suits soaked in blood.
"Push forward!" Vance bellowed, realizing his numerical advantage was rapidly shrinking. He laid down a heavy blanket of automatic fire, shredding the leather sofa Michael was using for cover.
Michael ducked low, feeling the sharp sting of a wood splinter grazing his cheek. He needed to break their momentum. He noticed the heavy, automated steel shutters covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. The control panel was on the wall just a few feet away.
"Marcus, I'm going for the shutter controls!" Michael yelled over the din. "Give me cover!"
Marcus didn't hesitate. He stepped out from the hallway, unleashing a relentless barrage of fire that forced Vance and his remaining men to duck behind the foyer debris.
Michael sprinted from the ruined sofa, his polished dress shoes sliding slightly on the glass-strewn floor. He reached the control panel and smashed his fist onto the emergency override button.
The heavy steel shutters instantly began to retract with a loud, mechanical groan. As they rose, the freezing, snow-covered Chicago night was revealed, along with the blindingly bright lights of the city skyline. The sudden flood of white light completely overwhelmed the dim, tactical red illumination of the penthouse.
Vance’s men, wearing night-vision optics optimized for the dark, were instantly blinded by the sudden glare. They stumbled, ripping the goggles from their faces in pain and confusion.
Michael and Marcus capitalized on the blinding tactical shift immediately. Moving with lethal synchronization, they neutralized the disoriented mercenaries. Michael fired twice, dropping a man attempting to breach the hallway. Marcus dispatched two more near the doorway.
Vance, realizing his team was decimated and the mission was a catastrophic failure, made a desperate, cowardly calculation. He scrambled backward through the splintered oak doors, abandoning his men and fleeing toward the emergency stairwell.
"He's running!" Marcus shouted, preparing to pursue.
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"Let him go," Michael commanded, his chest heaving under his pale-blue dress shirt. "We don't have time. The extraction team is here."
A deafening, rhythmic thud echoed from the roof directly above them, vibrating through the penthouse ceiling. The private security helicopter had arrived.
