Chapter 7 - The Counter-Strike: Mobilizing The Private Arsenal
The private jet tore through the stratosphere at Mach 0.9, banking hard toward the southern coast of France as the digital intelligence feeds updated in real-time on the cabin displays.
Vincent paced the length of the mahogany-paneled aisle, his mind racing through every possible tactical scenario to rescue his family and eliminate Julian’s syndicate once and for all.
Commander Vance sat at the main intelligence terminal, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as satellite telemetry triangulated the exact GPS coordinates of Julian’s Mediterranean hideout.
“We have a positive fix on the broadcast signal from the flash drive, Mr. Bellandi,” Vance announced, spinning the tactical monitor around to display a high-resolution satellite map.
Vincent stopped pacing and leaned over the screen, his eyes scanning the detailed imagery of a sprawling, heavily fortified cliffside villa overlooking the azure waters of the French Riviera near Nice.
“That’s the old De Luca estate,” Vincent recognized immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was abandoned ten years ago after a federal tax evasion scandal.”
“Not abandoned anymore, sir,” Vance corrected, tapping a key to bring up thermal imaging scans of the property. “Our heat signatures show at least twelve armed private mercenaries patrolling the perimeter, plus automated defense turrets along the seawall.”
“Julian thinks hiding behind a private army on foreign soil will save him from a family reckoning,” Vincent said coldly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the estate’s weak points.
“We can’t launch a frontal assault without risking a firefight that could draw local European law enforcement and compromise our corporate assets,” Vance advised pragmatically.
“Who said anything about a frontal assault?” Vincent asked, walking over to the weapons locker built into the bulkhead of the executive cabin.
He popped the heavy steel latch, revealing an array of tactical gear, suppressed carbines, and high-tech electronic breaching tools secured neatly in custom foam cutouts.
“We’re going in through the subterranean sea caves beneath the cliff,” Vincent explained, lifting a sleek tactical vest and strapping it securely across his chest.
“The sea caves lead directly up into the estate’s wine cellar,” Vance realized, a grim smile crossing his weathered face. “Julian won’t even know we’re on the property until we’re standing in his living room.”
“Exactly. And while we’re neutralizing his mercenaries, our corporate legal team in Geneva will be executing a hostile asset seizure of every single bank account tied to V.H. Holdings,” Vincent added, sliding a fully loaded magazine into his carbine with a sharp click.
“What about Serena and Damien back at the estate?” Vance asked, securing his own sidearm into his holster.
“Let them rot in the subterranean holding room until we return. Once Julian is dealt with, they’ll face federal conspiracy charges with no possibility of bail or plea bargains,” Vincent replied without a hint of hesitation.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom speakers, interrupting their tactical briefing with a crisp, professional warning.
“Mr. Bellandi, Commander Vance, we are twenty minutes out from our designated drop zone off the coast of Nice. Prepare for low-altitude tactical insertion.”
Vincent locked his carbine’s bolt carrier group forward, testing the weapon’s action before slipping it into a waterproof tactical scabbard.
He walked over to the small porthole window of the jet, staring out at the darkening horizon where the Mediterranean Sea met the starry night sky.
Eleanor’s final letter rested safely inside the interior pocket of his tactical vest, a constant reminder of the woman who had sacrificed everything to protect their family.
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“Hold on, Emma,” Vincent whispered into the empty cabin air, making a silent vow to return home victorious. “Daddy’s coming back for our family, and nobody is ever going to hurt us again.”
The jet’s engines throttled down as it began its steep, rapid descent toward the dark waters of the French coast, plunging headfirst into the war zone.
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