"They're early," Silas muttered, grabbing a suppressed sniper rifle from the wall rack.
"They're desperate," Elara countered, sliding a pair of silver combat fans—her signature weapon—into her sleeves.
The paragliders were black shapes against the midnight snow. Silas stepped out onto the balcony, the sub-zero air hitting him like a physical blow. He didn't use a scope. He used his instinct.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three chutes collapsed in the air. The mercenaries plummeted into the crevasse below.
"Inside! Now!" Silas yelled as a hail of return fire shattered the glass railing.
They retreated into the villa, but the front doors were already being breached by a battering ram.
"Leo! Get to the panic room!" Elara screamed.
The boy, still groggy but recognizing the sound of gunfire, scrambled into the hidden compartment behind the bookshelf.
The mercenaries poured in—six of them, wearing white winter camo.
Elara was a blur of motion. She didn't use a gun. She moved through the room like a ghost, her fans flashing in the firelight. A flick of her wrist, and a throat was opened. A spin, and a mercenary's femoral artery was severed.
Silas covered her, his pistol barking with surgical precision.
But then, the floor erupted.
A breach charge from the level below sent Silas flying. He hit the stone fireplace, his head slamming against the mantel.
A mercenary moved in, raising a combat knife for a finishing blow.
"Silas!" Elara screamed. She threw her fan, but a second mercenary tackled her mid-air.
As the blade descended toward Silas's throat, a shot rang out.
It didn't come from Silas. And it didn't come from Elara.
The mercenary's head snapped back as he fell dead.
Standing in the doorway was Marcus. He was holding a smoking gun, but he wasn't wearing his Syndicate gear. He was wearing a blood-stained suit.
"Nobody kills the Ghost but me," Marcus growled. "And right now, we have a bigger problem. The Ouroboros just sent the 'Cleaners.' They aren't here to capture you. They're here to level the entire mountain."