Chapter 4 - THE SIEGE OF PORT HAVEN
By Wednesday midnight, a fierce Atlantic gale had battered the coast of Maine, bringing driving rain, fifty-knot winds, and crashing waves that flooded the low-lying boardwalks of Port Haven.
The power grid across the south spit failed at 1:15 a.m., plunging the coastal neighborhood into pitch darkness.
Inside the Pruitt cottage, the heavy emergency generator hummed to life in the basement, providing dim yellow light to the central hallway. Eli Cross stood by the front window, a heavy thermal-imaging monocular pressed to his eye.
“Power line down on the main road,” Eli reported into his radio headset. “Cellular signal jammed. They’re using a localized frequency-disruption array.”
Roman stood in the living room, wearing a tactical vest over his dark shirt, two high-capacity handguns holstered at his side. He turned to Evelyn, who was sitting on the sofa with Mara wrapped in a thick wool blanket beside her.
“Eli and three men will secure you in the reinforced root cellar beneath the kitchen,” Roman instructed quietly. “The door is six-inch steel-reinforced oak with a deadbolt. Do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice.”
Evelyn nodded calmly, holding Mara’s hand tightly. “Be careful, Roman. Victor Vance is a coward, but a coward with a gun is still dangerous.”
“He won't leave this harbor alive tonight,” Roman answered simply.
Five minutes later, the first strike began.
Three dark, unmarked utility vans pulled up through the flooded gravel lane, their headlights off. Twelve armed men dressed in black tactical gear poured out into the driving rain, advancing toward the perimeter fence.
“Engage,” Eli’s voice echoed over the tactical radio.
Silenced gunfire erupted through the storm. Muzzle flashes illuminated the sheeting rain like strobes of lightning. Roman’s perimeter guards, stationed in the tree line, opened fire with disciplined precision, dropping four of the advancing attackers before they reached the porch steps.
Roman stepped out onto the side porch, his weapon drawn.
A tactical operative rounded the corner of the house, raising an automatic rifle. Roman fired twice, the heavy rounds dropping the operative instantly onto the wet gravel.
Roman advanced through the dark yard, his movements smooth, methodical, and devastatingly efficient. He moved like a shadow through the gale, cutting through Victor Vance’s mercenary team one by one.
At the edge of the property, near the old boathouse, a tall, gaunt figure stood beneath a dark umbrella, watching the firefight through a pair of night-vision goggles.
He walked with a heavy limp—the result of the warehouse fire six years ago.
It was Victor Vance.
Through the rain, Victor saw Roman approaching, covered in rainwater and blood, moving with the terrifying momentum of an unstoppable force.
“Fall back to the docks!” Victor screamed into his radio, his voice cracking with terror. “Fall back to the boat!”
Victor turned and ran—his bad leg dragging slightly behind him—toward the private dock where a fifty-foot high-speed motor yacht was moored against the rising tide.
Roman broke into a sprint through the mud and rising seawater, kicking through the splintered boardwalk gates, chasing his former second-in-command into the darkness of the harbor.
“Roman!” Eli shouted from behind, rushing down the dock with three security guards. “The boat is rigged with high-output twin engines! If he gets into open water, we won't catch him in this storm!”
Victor reached the pier, frantically untying the heavy mooring lines securing the yacht to the wooden pilings. He scrambled up the stern ladder, pulling a submachine gun from beneath his coat, and sprayed a wild burst of bullets back toward the dock.
The rounds splintered the wooden railings around Roman’s feet.
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Roman didn't duck. He didn't slow down.
He leapt across the four-foot gap of churning, black sea water between the pier and the vessel, landing heavily on the slippery teak deck of the yacht just as the twin diesel engines roared to life with a deafening screech.
