I Came Home Early To A Hit Squad In My Living Room — And My Fiancee Was Pouring Their Drinks
Part 1
I wasn’t supposed to return from Miami until Friday.
My business negotiations down south concluded two days early.
A nagging instinct kept pushing me to board my private jet and head straight back to the city.
I had survived two decades in this brutal underworld by listening to that quiet voice in the back of my mind.
I enjoyed the quiet satisfaction of returning to my fortress unannounced.
My estate sat behind heavy iron gates and ancient oaks in a quiet, wealthy suburb.
More than anything, I wanted to surprise Megan.
My beautiful fiancee was the only soft spot in my otherwise hardened life.
She brought a semblance of peace to the chaotic world I inhabited.
The heavy gates parted seamlessly as my driver bypassed the main intercom.
Our tires crunched against the wet gravel of the long circular driveway.
The massive stone facade of my home loomed in complete darkness.
The perimeter floodlights were entirely dead.
A sudden icy prickle crawled up the base of my neck.
I told my driver to keep the engine running and wait.
I slid my suppressed compact pistol from its shoulder holster into my overcoat pocket.
I used my thumbprint to unlock the heavy oak side door leading directly into the mudroom.
The interior was pitch black and totally silent beneath the drumming storm outside.
I stepped inside the house.
My leather shoes made absolutely no sound on the imported Italian tile.
I reached out to press the wall switch.
A thick hand clamped shut over my wrist in the dark.
I pivoted with lethal speed and raised my weapon toward the threat.
I stopped my gun just inches from Brenda’s face.
Brenda was the head maid who had managed this massive property for fifteen years.
She was a heavy-set woman who usually moved with a slow rolling gait.
Tonight her wide face was deathly pale.
Her large chest heaved as she fought to control her rapid breathing.
She pressed a thick trembling finger to her lips.
She didn’t let go of my wrist.
Her grip possessed a desperate vicelike strength.
She pulled me away from the hallway leading to the grand foyer.
She dragged my frame toward a narrow unlit utility closet.
I finally pulled my arm free once we were inside the cramped darkness.
I asked her what the hell was going on and where Megan was.
Tears spilled freely over her full cheeks as she swallowed hard.
Whispering frantically, she told me my early arrival was a terrible mistake.
Praising whatever luck had guided me to the side entrance, she confessed the terrifying truth.
Walking through the front door would have meant instant death.
The temperature in the small closet seemed to drop ten degrees.
I demanded to know who was waiting in my house.
Brenda took a shuddering breath.
She described six heavily armed men wearing dark tactical gear.
They had arrived an hour ago and immediately disabled the perimeter cameras.
They cut the main power lines to plunge the estate into darkness.
They were sitting in the formal living room waiting for my morning flight.
They planned to ambush my motorcade in the driveway tomorrow.
I tightened my grip on my weapon.
A cold calculated fury replaced my initial shock.
A hit squad bypassing my security system without triggering an alarm meant an inside job.
Someone with top-tier clearance had opened the gates for them.
I asked if Megan was a hostage.
Brenda looked down at the wooden floor.
Her heavy shoulders slumped forward in the dark.
She opened her eyes and they were filled with profound sorrow.
She had always loved me in a strictly maternal, protective way.
She told me Megan wasn’t a hostage.
The devastating truth hung heavy in the stagnant air of the closet.
She said Megan had poured them drinks.
She said my fiancee was sitting on the leather sofa laughing with the man who ordered the hit.
The floor beneath my shoes dissolved into a bottomless chasm.
I asked if she was absolutely certain of this claim.
Brenda nodded vigorously.
She explained she had been in the pantry polishing silver when the power cut.
She hid behind the dumbwaiter and watched them walk in with flashlights.
She saw Megan greet the armed men.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with a plump hand.
She told me Megan had kissed Brian.
Brian was my childhood friend and my right-hand man from the old neighborhood.
He was supposed to be the best man at my wedding in three weeks.
The betrayal was so deep it temporarily paralyzed my thought process.
They had also brought Dan with them.
Dan was a vicious enforcer looking to expand his territory into my city.
Brian wasn’t just taking my life and my woman.
He was selling my entire operation to the highest bidder.
I ordered Brenda to show me the living room.
She squeezed past me and reached for a hidden latch behind the mop buckets.
The estate was built by a prominent bootlegger in the twenties.
It was riddled with concealed servant corridors and smuggling tunnels.
The wall panel clicked softly and swung outward into a dust-filled passageway.
She instructed me to follow her steps exactly.
We moved like ghosts through the walls of the mansion.
The air in the passage smelled of dry rot and old brick.
I followed her broad back up a narrow incline.
We reached a small iron grate hidden behind the grand tapestry in the living room.
Dim flickering light spilled from the massive stone fireplace into the darkness.
I pressed my eye to the ornate metalwork.
Six men in dark tactical gear stood at various points around the opulent room.
Megan sat in the center on the custom leather sofa.
She looked breathtaking in a silk emerald dress.
She held a crystal tumbler of my expensive scotch.
Brian sat beside her with his arm casually draped around her bare shoulders.
Dan sat across from them in my favorite armchair.
I watched the woman I was supposed to marry in three weeks laugh with the men who were planning to bury me tomorrow.
