Chapter 5 - The Helicopter Assault
The black Sikorsky S-76 helicopter roared over the Denver skyline at fifteen hundred feet, its twin turbine engines drowning out the city’s nocturnal hum.
Below us, the brick alleyways and renovated industrial lofts of the LoDo district looked calm, bathed in the soft yellow glow of streetlights. But as we neared Blake Street, I could see two dark SUVs parked diagonally across the intersection, blocking emergency vehicle access.
Grant leaned out the open side door of the chopper, a pair of night-vision binoculars pressed to his eyes.
“My ground team’s armored vehicle is disabled two blocks away,” Grant shouted over the deafening rotor wash. “The cartel squad has sealed off Paige’s apartment building. They have at least eight men inside the structure.”
I leaned past him, peering down at the four-story brick building where my younger sister had lived for three years. Shadows moved behind the fourth-floor windows—men systematically tearing her home apart in search of my father’s legacy.
“They’re going to kill her the second they find the box,” I said, my knuckles white as I gripped the frame of the chopper door.
“We drop on the roof,” Grant commanded, turning to his tactical lead, a scarred veteran named Miller. “Miller, you and two men take the roof access stairs and push down from the top floor. Grant, you and I take the fire escape on the south face and flank the four-story hallway.”
“Understood, Mr. Voss!” Miller replied, racking the bolt of his carbine.
The helicopter hovered ten feet above the gravel rooftop of the brick building. The side door flew open, and cold night air whipped through the cabin.
Miller and his men rappelled down onto the roof instantly.
I didn't wait for a rope. I grabbed the steel frame of the helicopter door, swung my body out into the open air, and dropped eight feet onto the gravel, rolling smoothly onto my shoulder as I hit the roof to absorb the impact.
Grant dropped right behind me, his weapon raised, landing with solid, trained precision.
The roof door had already been kicked open by Miller’s squad. We descended the narrow concrete stairwell in total darkness, illuminated only by the tactical flashlights mounted beneath Miller’s rifle barrels.
The heavy iron door leading to the fourth-floor hallway was propped open with a fire extinguisher.
The smell of burnt gunpowder, copper, and plaster dust hung thick in the cold corridor.
Two bodies in black tactical gear lay on the patterned carpet near the elevator—Damon’s hitmen, taken down by Grant’s initial security team.
At the far end of the hallway, Apartment 4B’s door hung off its hinges, splintered down the center.
Inside, I could hear furniture being violently smashed, wooden drawers being pulled out and emptied onto the floor, and a man’s harsh voice shouting in Spanish: “Look behind the drywall! Find the safe!”
Then I heard a small, terrified whimpering sound that made my blood run cold.
“Please...” my sister Paige’s voice cried out, thick with terror. “Please, I don't have any money! Take whatever you want!”
A heavy slapping sound echoed through the hallway, followed by Paige’s sharp scream.
“Shut up, bitch! Where is the mahogany box?!”
Every shred of self-preservation, every rule Jonah Mercer had ever beaten into my head, evaporated into pure, primal rage.
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I didn't look at Grant. I didn't wait for Miller’s tactical signal.
I pulled the titanium knife from my jacket pocket, snapped the razor-sharp blade open with a silent flick of my wrist, and charged straight through the splintered door of Apartment 4B.
