Chapter 3 - The Perimeter Breached
Vincent didn't raise his voice. “Lights out on the east wing. Cut the exterior floods near the greenhouse. Do it quietly.”
Marco pressed the tactical earpiece wedged into his ear, his voice a harsh whisper. “Command, this is Diaz. Code Black on Zone Three. Kill the floods at Grid Seven. Do not sound the sirens. Repeat, silent response.”
The estate’s heavy garden floodlights died, plunging the lawn into deep, charcoal-gray shadows cut only by the silver slash of the storm.
Vincent reached into the cabinet behind his desk and retrieved a compact 9mm with an integral suppressor. He chambered a round with a clean, metallic *clack*.
Titan stood beside him, perfectly still, muscles coiled like high-tension cable. The dog looked up at Vincent, waiting for the release command.
“Heel,” Vincent whispered in German. *“Fuß.”*
Titan dropped his head, sticking to Vincent’s left knee as they slipped through the side entrance into the sheltered colonnade. The cold rain lashed sideways, soaking Vincent’s wool trousers within seconds, but his focus remained locked on the tree line bordering the southern perimeter.
The cottage sat nestled in a grove of rhododendrons and towering oaks. Through the downpour, Vincent could see the outline of Arthur Bennett’s modest brick dwelling. No lights showed in the windows. But on the wet gravel path leading toward the cottage porch, a figure in a dark rain slicker was moving with terrifying efficiency.
The intruder moved low, staying beneath the sightlines of the estate’s wall cameras. He held a suppressed carbine close to his chest. This was no petty thief or local thug looking for jewelry. His movement was military, tactical, methodical.
Vincent signaled Marco, who was circling through the hedge maze to flank the intruder.
Suddenly, the side door of the cottage clicked open.
Arthur Bennett stepped onto the porch.
He wasn't wearing his gardener’s overalls. He was dressed in black tactical fleece and cargo pants, holding an antique crowbar in his right hand. But as the lightning flickered across the sky, Vincent saw Arthur’s posture.
Arthur didn't stand like a frightened gardener. He had dropped his center of gravity, his shoulders square, his eyes scanning the blind spots with mechanical precision.
The intruder burst from the bushes, raising the carbine directly at Arthur’s chest.
“Arthur!” Vincent shouted, breaking cover—not to save the man, but to keep him alive for answers.
At the sound of Vincent’s shout, the intruder pivoted his weapon toward Vincent.
“Titan, *voran!*” Vincent roared.
The German Shepherd surged forward like a missile across the sodden grass, ninety pounds of fur, muscle, and fangs launching through the dark.
The gunman fired twice, the suppressed thuds kicking up spurts of mud, but Arthur moved with shocking speed. Instead of ducking for cover, the gardener lunged forward, swinging the heavy crowbar with brutal, lethal accuracy. The steel edge caught the gunman’s weapon forearm with a sickening crunch. The carbine flew into the sodden grass.
Before the intruder could draw a sidearm, Titan hit him in mid-air.
The impact drove the man into the brick foundation of the cottage with a bone-jarring slam. Titan’s jaws locked around the man’s tactical vest, shaking him with savage fury while the man screamed, flailing against the beast’s weight.
“Titan, *aus!*” Arthur snapped.
The dog froze. His jaws remained clamped on the fabric, but he stopped thrashing. He held the intruder pinned to the earth, low growls vibrating in his throat.
Vincent walked out of the shadow of the colonnade, his gun raised, his eyes fixed not on the bleeding intruder, but on Arthur Bennett.
Arthur stood in the rain, chest heaving, his fingers bloody where he had gripped the crowbar. He looked down at Titan, then slowly turned his head to meet Vincent’s icy gaze.
“You spoke high German tactical commands,” Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “The kennel command. Only three units in the world use that specific vocal cadence for release.”
Arthur didn't deny it. He wiped rain from his eyes, his breath hitching. “Mr. Rourke, we don't have time for this.”
“We have all the time in the world, Arthur. Who is on my lawn?”
“He’s not here for you,” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate terror that tore through his military composure. “He’s here for Lily.”
From inside the dark cottage, the thin, frightened cry of a child cut through the thunder.
“Daddy? Daddy, where are you?”
May you like
Titan’s ears swiveled toward the cottage window, and for the first time that night, Arthur Bennett looked like a man who was ready to drop to his knees and beg.
***
