Chapter 12 - THE CLOSE-QUARTERS NEUTRALIZATION: WHY PROFESSIONAL TACTICAL GEAR IS USELESS AGAINST A JSOC MAJOR
The intruder pivoted smoothly toward Lily’s door, his rifle barrel rising to sweep the threshold.
He never made it.
I dropped out of the shadows of the linen closet alcove like an anvil falling from the ceiling, my forearm slamming across the back of his neck while my left hand hooked his tactical vest, using his own heavy forward momentum against him.
We hit the hardwood floor with a muffled crash that rattled the picture frames on the wall.
He grunted in shock, trying to swing his carbine barrel around to bring it to bear on my chest, but I was already inside his engagement zone.
Using a classic bone-breaking joint-lock, I hyperextended his right elbow until cartilage popped audibly beneath his ballistic sleeve, forcing him to drop the rifle with a sharp curse.
He lashed out with a vicious left hook, but I caught his fist mid-swing, twisted his wrist into submission, and drove my knee directly upward into his solar plexus.
The intruder seized, his body going completely rigid before collapsing into a helpless heap against the baseboard.
I didn't hesitate.
I pinned him to the floor with my knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades, ripped the neoprene balaclava down from his face, and jammed the muzzle of my Sig Sauer gently against the base of his skull.
“Don't move,” I whispered, my voice colder than liquid nitrogen. “Breathe wrong, and your next stop is a pine box.”
The man wheezed for air, his face pressed flat against our entryway rug, sweating profusely under the dim moonlight.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark and looked up at me, a flicker of profound, unmistakable recognition crossed his features.
“Vance... Major Vance?” he choked out, his voice trembling with sheer terror.
I paused, my finger resting lightly against the trigger guard. “You know me?”
“I was... I was part of the Blackwood security detail in Sofia three years ago,” he gasped, wincing as my knee applied a fraction more pressure to his spine. “I wasn't here to hurt the kid. I swear to God! I was sent by Victor Sterling!”
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Victor Sterling.
Warren Caldwell’s true puppet master.
The shadowy international financier who had been using Warren’s municipal shell companies to launder millions of dollars in gray-zone arms trafficking funds across Eastern Europe.
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When Warren went down, Sterling had gone to ground, erasing his digital footprint and fleeing the country.
Or so the Department of Defense intelligence task force had believed.
