The flashbangs and flares strategically scattered across Castle's private beach erupted all at once, casting blinding light across the area. Castle had deliberately chosen these instead of spotlights, knowing the mercenaries were equipped with high-caliber sniper rifles. Spotlights would have been easy targets, but flashbangs and flares offered the perfect blend of disruption and tactical advantage.
Castle was well aware that the mercenaries' cutting-edge "GPNVG" quad-tube night vision goggles—nicknamed the "Four-Eyed God"—were equipped with built-in protection against intense light. The flashbangs wouldn't actually "blind" them, unlike older models of night vision goggles, but the sudden burst of light still served as a momentary disruption. For Castle, however, this tactic wasn't entirely about utility—it was a reflection of his dark sense of humor.
The squad leader of the mercenaries, a precision marksman, immediately realized what had happened as soon as the light flared. Their secretive assault had been fully exposed, and it was now clear that they had walked straight into a trap. A less disciplined group might have turned tail and retreated to the speedboats, but these men were cut from a different cloth. Descendants of the fearless Cossacks who had once charged mechanized Nazi divisions on horseback, these mercenaries shouted their ancestral battle cry—"Ura!"—and charged forward, their determination undeterred.
Even the squad leader and the sniper, who were supposed to provide cover fire from the boats, leaped into action. The squad leader abandoned his position and dashed toward the estate alongside the others. It was a sight to behold—ten men, brimming with reckless courage, sprinting across the sand in a desperate bid to seize the initiative.
The audacity of the mercenaries left most observers stunned. In Castle's study, he blinked in disbelief. At Gianna's indoor shooting range, where the FBI and NYPD tactical teams waited, officers exchanged shocked glances. Their expressions ranged from surprise to muted admiration.
But Ivan, Castle's head of security, was unfazed. As a former Russian special forces operative, he had seen this kind of suicidal bravery many times during his counter-terrorism missions in the Motherland. To him, it wasn't valor—it was sheer stupidity.
"Jarvis, open fire," Ivan commanded with a vicious grin.
Castle had no intention of letting his security team engage in a direct firefight with the mercenaries. That was what the M2 Browning heavy machine guns were for. Four of these monstrous weapons, each firing .50 caliber armor-piercing incendiary rounds, were positioned to cover the beach.
As the mercenaries charged toward the estate, the machine guns roared to life.
"Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!" The deafening sound of the guns echoed across the coastline. Unlike the sharper cracks of smaller calibers, the heavy, bone-rattling thuds of the .50 caliber rounds were unmistakable. The mercenaries, who were no strangers to these weapons, instantly recognized the sound.
The realization hit like a freight train: They were up against not one, not two, but at least four heavy machine guns.
But what made their blood run cold was the direction of the initial barrage—it wasn't aimed at them. The four machine guns focused on the speedboats docked at the shore, tearing them apart in seconds. The boats exploded into splinters under the relentless hail of armor-piercing rounds, and the sniper who had stayed behind for support was shredded into unrecognizable pieces.
Castle had no mercy for those who threatened his life. The incendiary rounds ensured the speedboats weren't just destroyed but obliterated, cutting off any hope of retreat. The mercenaries were now trapped on the beach, with no means of escape.
The squad leader knew they were in a dire situation. Their only chance of survival lay in reaching the estate. They needed to breach the buildings and find cover before the machine guns reduced them to mincemeat. He barked orders to his remaining men, urging them to press forward despite the carnage.
But advancing across an open beach under the unrelenting fire of four .50 caliber machine guns? It was a suicide mission.
The relentless barrage had already claimed four of the ten mercenaries in the first minute of engagement. The squad leader and five others remained, though two of them had been wounded by shrapnel from the incendiary rounds. The squad leader cursed under his breath. He had severely underestimated their target. What kind of "writer" installs four heavy machine guns in his home?
The chaos on the beach was in full view of Gianna's estate, where FBI and NYPD tactical teams were preparing to mobilize. Their primary task was to secure the surrounding area, preventing nosy reporters from interfering or getting caught in the crossfire.
But even as they moved out, two news helicopters were already circling above, drawn to the sound of gunfire like vultures to a carcass. New York's media companies, always eager for breaking news, had their helicopters perpetually patrolling the skies, waiting for action. The firefight on Castle's beachfront was exactly the kind of spectacle they lived for.
Back on the beach, Castle's security team remained comfortably ensconced in their defensive positions. Ivan had drilled it into them: Don't get cocky. Don't engage unless absolutely necessary. Castle's plan relied on Jarvis-controlled machine guns to wear the mercenaries down before his team mopped up the survivors. There was no need for heroics.
The six surviving mercenaries were now fully pinned down. The beach wasn't large—barely 100 meters of sand separated them from the estate—but those 100 meters might as well have been 100 kilometers. The machine guns had turned the entire stretch into a kill zone.
The squad leader clenched his fists, his heart sinking as he surveyed the situation. Their boats were gone, their sniper was dead, and now they were stuck in an open field with no cover. It was clear that the writer they had underestimated wasn't just rich—he was insane.
Still, surrender wasn't an option. These were hardened mercenaries, men who had faced death countless times. They turned to their leader, awaiting orders. Their eyes burned with defiance, ready to fight to the bitter end.
In Castle's study, he couldn't help but feel a begrudging respect for their determination. He turned to Gianna and quipped, "You know, these guys really earned their paychecks. Too bad loyalty doesn't stop bullets."
Castle decided it was time to finish the job. Seeing that the mercenaries had no intention of surrendering, he issued a new command.
"Jarvis, bring the drone into play."
High above the beach, the surveillance drone that had been quietly observing the battle descended into action. The drone, armed with 24 micro-missiles, canceled its stealth mode and revealed its payload. The mercenaries, huddled together on the beach, looked up in horror as the drone's silhouette emerged against the night sky.
The squad leader's heart sank. "What kind of lunatic has a weaponized drone?" he thought, as the drone's targeting systems locked onto their position.
Castle smirked. "You wanted to play? Let me show you how I play."
Jarvis unleashed the first missile, and the beach erupted into chaos once again.
(End of Chapter)
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