Chapter 4 - The Cleaners
The horrifying reality of Ethan's true business hit Richard like a physical blow to the chest.
His daughter was not just dealing with an abusive husband.
She was married to a monster running a massive, illegal human trafficking ring disguised as a cybersecurity firm.
"What is your name?" Richard asked gently, helping the battered woman to her feet.
"Sarah," she whimpered, leaning heavily against the steel wall of the panic room.
Before Richard could ask her for the exact location of the Farm, the sound of heavy tires screeching on gravel echoed from the driveway.
Three unmarked black SUVs violently smashed through the front gates and skidded to a halt on the lawn.
A dozen men dressed in dark tactical gear poured out of the vehicles, armed with suppressed submachine guns.
They were professional cleaners, sent by Ethan to ensure there were absolutely no survivors or evidence left in the mansion.
"Stay exactly where you are and do not make a sound," Richard whispered, pushing Sarah back into the dark panic room.
He slipped out into the smoke-filled hallway, keeping his body low to the ground to avoid casting a shadow.
The front door was kicked violently off its hinges, and the tactical team flooded into the grand foyer.
They moved with strict military precision, sweeping their weapons across the ruined living room in a tight formation.
Richard realized he had only one handgun against a dozen heavily armed mercenaries.
He needed to change the odds using the layout of the house and the lingering smoke from the explosion.
He grabbed a heavy bronze vase from a shattered side table and hurled it toward the kitchen.
The vase crashed loudly against the tile floor, drawing the immediate attention of the lead mercenaries.
Three men broke formation and rushed toward the noise, their laser sights cutting through the dust.
Richard stepped out from the shadows directly behind them and fired three rapid, suppressed shots.
The three men collapsed to the floor instantly before they even realized they were under attack.
Richard seamlessly scooped up one of their dropped assault rifles and a spare tactical vest.
The remaining mercenaries heard the bodies hit the floor and aggressively turned their fire toward the hallway.
Bullets chewed through the drywall, showering Richard with white plaster dust as he dove behind a solid marble pillar.
He checked the magazine of his newly acquired rifle and took a slow, calming breath.
Suddenly, a cell phone strapped to the chest of one of the dead mercenaries began to ring loudly.
Richard carefully dragged the body closer and ripped the phone from the tactical harness.
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The screen displayed a live, encrypted video feed from a dark, industrial room.
Emily was tied tightly to a metal chair in the center of the video, sobbing as a masked man pressed a loaded gun directly against her temple.
