Page 29 of The Rook’s Obsession

The back door explodes inward.

They come in pairs, like I knew they would. Two through the door, two through the window half a second later. Fast and aggressive, designed to overwhelm a single defender with speed and angles.

They weren’t expecting two defenders. They really should have scouted this out.

The first man through the door is dead before he registers my position. I put two rounds in his chest from behind the counter, center mass, and he drops in the doorway. The second man trips over him—a half-second stumble, barely anything—but half a second is a lifetime in a situation like this. I shift my aim and fire once, and he goes down on top of his partner.

The window pair is faster. The first one comes through feet-first, and he’s up with his rifle before I can track him. I drop behind the counter as a burst of automatic fire chews into the cabinets above my head. Splinters and broken dishes fly everywhere. With my left hand, I grab the gun from the counter, lean around the edge, and fire three times. Two of them miss. The third catches him in the throat—he drops his rifle to grab his neck with both hands.

The fourth man is already on me. I don’t have time to aim before he comes around the counter with his rifle up. I throw myself sideways, roll, and come up firing. The first round takes him in the shoulder and spins him. The second puts him down for good.

The entire thing couldn’t have taken more than fifteen seconds. My ears are ringing. There’s something hot on my cheek. Maybe from the glass or a splinter from the cabinet, but nothing serious.

From the living room, Nick continues firing. Controlled shots, spaced and deliberate.

Then, silence.

I clear the kitchen. Check corners, the bodies, the window. There’s no one else coming through. “Clear!” I call out.

There are more shots from the front. Two more, and then more silence. This time, it’s real.

Nick appears from behind the fireplace, gun still in hand. His eyes find me immediately, then scan me for damage. “How many on your side?” he asks.

“Four. Two by two.”

“Four on mine.” He looks down at one of the men, still on the floor. “One of them might still be breathing.”

“Eight total.” I lower both guns, letting them hang at my sides. “A full team.”

We’re thinking the same thing. This was a coordinated assault, not reconnaissance. Not a warning.

Thinking back, I add, “They were shouting to each other. In English.”

“American,” he confirms. “Not Italian.”

“No.” Vincenzo’s personal soldiers are Italian, trained in Italy. They speak Italian under stress because that’s what you default to when bullets are flying.

These were American. Local.

Vincenzo outsourced this.

Nick goes to the porch, where one of the bodies is slumped against the railing. I follow, watching as he crouches beside the man sprawled in the gravel next to the woodpile and searches his pockets. No IDs. Generic tactical gear. But there’s a phone in his vest pocket. Nick presses the dead man’s thumb to the sensor to unlock it.

I watch as he scrolls through whatever was open last on the phone. His face changes as I watch. There’s a coldness that settles in his eyes—I’ve never seen it before.

Then he turns the phone my way.

I read the messages. First, logistics. GPS coordinates matching this cabin. A satellite image with the security positions marked, which means someone gave them our layout.

Number of occupants: two. No names. Only descriptions.

Then the final message.

Terminate both. No recovery. Confirm when complete.

I have to read it twice. Three times. It makes no sense. In the back of my mind, I don’t want it to.

This wasn’t a rescue or retrieval. This wasn’t Vincenzo sending men to bring me home. He wasn’t interested in reclaiming his asset or punishing the man who took me.