Wearing only his boxer shorts, Jack stepped out of the bathroom and stood by the window in his upstairs bedroom. He lit a cigar, enjoying it as he thought back on the battle from earlier. Emily had previously threatened him not to walk around the living room shirtless, but surely no one could complain if he stayed in his bedroom, right?
He was enjoying his smoke, replaying the events of the earlier fight in his mind, when he noticed three vans slowly approaching along the road leading to his house. The vans were lined up in a convoy, moving at a slow pace without their headlights on, which sent a bad feeling surging through Jack. The nearest house was at least a hundred meters away, so it was obvious these vehicles were coming for him.
Jack quickly moved to the door, shut off the lights, and threw on a robe. He yelled down to Emily, who was still soaking in the downstairs bathroom, "Emily, you'd better get dressed now."
He returned to the window, heightening his senses as he cautiously observed. Grabbing his phone, he hesitated for a second before calling Tim.
"Hey, could you send a patrol car to check things out? I think I've got some unwanted guests at my place."
Tim perked up on the other end of the line. "You think someone followed you home?"
Jack watched as the three vans stopped about seventy to eighty meters away on an empty plot of land, doors opening. He sneered. "You think I'd be that careless? No, someone hacked into my LAPD files earlier and probably got my address that way."
"Okay, I was just getting off work. I'll come with John. Try not to go too hard on them—our officers have already seen enough bodies today."
Tim sounded completely unconcerned. It was no joke—Jack had no reputation to speak of on the surface, but within their circle, he was a living legend.
Tim had watched Jack's basement armory grow bit by bit, from nothing into a formidable collection. He'd even once joked with John that even if the entire Wilshire Division were deployed, they wouldn't stand a chance against a prepared Jack. The SWAT team might have a shot, but only if they had armored vehicles, and even then, the cost of victory would be steep.
Jack watched one person step out of the lead van and raise a large pair of binoculars. Jack's brow furrowed. These guys were prepared. Military-grade night vision gear might not be common on the black market, but civilian night vision binoculars weren't that hard to come by. That move alone meant they'd likely already spotted his position.
Instead of hiding, Jack stood in plain view at the window, puffing on his cigar. He locked eyes with the guy spying on his house and flipped him off.
Sure enough, the man immediately lowered his binoculars, turned to say something to the people behind him, and then waved his hand. More than ten armed men jumped out of the vans, and the leader pointed toward Jack's house.
The next moment, Jack's eyes widened in shock. His pupils constricted as he yelled into the phone, "RPG! Call SWAT now!"
He tossed the phone aside and bolted. What did he see? Among the heavily armed men, three were carrying massive, tube-shaped launchers on their shoulders.
"Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!"
The silence of the night was shattered by three sharp whistles almost simultaneously. The distance of seventy to eighty meters vanished in an instant, followed by a massive explosion.
"Boom!"
The second floor of Jack's house was blasted apart. Shattered glass and debris, illuminated by firelight, shot out through the gaping holes where the windows had been.
A few seconds later, three more missiles streaked across the space between the attackers and the house, slamming through the ground-floor windows and front door. The house was once again engulfed in flames and explosions.
The force of the blasts set off car alarms several hundred meters away, filling the night with an orchestra of blaring horns.
"Move! Move! Move!" The leader urged his team. The armed men crouched down, assault rifles ready, splitting into four groups of three. They approached the now-ravaged house with standard tactical caution.
The distance wasn't far, but not too close either. Under normal circumstances, any well-trained athlete could cover a hundred meters in under twelve seconds. However, these attackers, divided into teams and using cover, took nearly two minutes to reach the steps of the house's porch.
The leader of the group was Liam, one of Doyle's most loyal men. As he saw his twelve men reach the porch steps, he leaned leisurely against the van's hood and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag.
This team was the gift he had prepared for his revered boss, Doyle. They had trained for five years and successfully completed their first mission by raiding a heavily guarded prison in Ukraine, rescuing Doyle without losing a single man.
Originally, there had been sixteen of them, but tonight, during a bizarre encounter, they had lost four men in an ambush by a young FBI agent, assisted by that damned woman. Liam couldn't stomach the humiliation of being forced to retreat.
This time, he wasn't just going to kill the FBI agent—he was going to capture that woman and bring her back. Doyle's elaborate plans were pointless compared to the simple, direct approach. Besides, the escape route was already set. Once they had their target, they could slip across the border into Mexico by morning.
As the first team reached the shattered front door of the house, the inside was completely dark. The power was out, and only a few small fires burned here and there, casting faint light.
One of the men cautiously placed a booted foot on the porch steps, the glass crunching softly underfoot. He paused to listen, but the house was eerily quiet—no moaning or other sounds of someone wounded.
The man moved closer to the doorframe, careful not to lean against it. As he surveyed the interior, he signaled to his teammates, bending his elbow to form an L-shape, indicating they should move forward.
Two of his teammates activated their tactical flashlights, ready to enter the house. But just as they stepped onto the porch, a loud clattering sound came from inside, as if a metal object had fallen onto the floor. Then, a low, ominous humming noise began—lower-pitched than a chainsaw, yet far more terrifying.
"This house isn't even paid off yet! Ahhh!!!"
With a roar like a mad tiger, a beam of light, as straight as a laser, pierced the darkness. A shrieking sound tore through the night, turning the space in front of them into a hellish bloodbath.
"Thud!" Liam's cigarette fell from his lips, and he stared blankly at the house in disbelief.
"Die, all of you!!!" Jack emerged from the doorway, his robe hanging loosely and smelling faintly of smoke. His bare chest glistened as his muscles bulged. In his hands, he held a massive M134 "Minigun," with a long ammunition belt trailing behind him.
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