Vlad didn't hesitate. He knew the heavy-armored team would expect a tactical retreat; he was going to give them a fireball instead.
He moved with frantic efficiency across the high-end kitchen. He reached behind the industrial-grade stove and wrenched the flexible brass gas line from the wall. The sharp, rotten-egg smell of mercaptan immediately filled the air as the gas hissed into the room. Next, he moved to the central island, slashing the lines to the built-in gas grill.
"Vance, I'm turning this place into a kiln," Vlad muttered, his voice muffled by the tactical mask he pulled over his face. "Give me a countdown."
"Copy that," Vance replied, his voice steady. "They're at the front door. Breach in five... four..."
Vlad snatched a high-calorie protein bar from the counter—an old habit of fueling even in chaos—and shoved it into a pouch. He grabbed a heavy copper pot and placed it over the open gas valve on the stove, then shoved a handful of silver forks into the high-powered microwave nearby.
"Three... two..."
Vlad sprinted toward the back of the kitchen, diving over the marble counter as the front doors of the mansion were kicked in with a flashbang's roar.
"One! Hit it!" Vance shouted.
Vlad didn't wait for the microwave to spark. He drew his suppressed pistol and fired a single shot into the toaster where he'd jammed a metal spoon. The spark met the thickened cloud of gas.
BOOM.
A massive concussive wave of orange flame erupted, shattering the glass cabinets and blowing the kitchen island off its base. The blast wave slammed into the incoming Black-Ops team just as they entered the foyer, throwing them back into the marble pillars.
Vlad used the roar of the explosion as cover. He rolled through the thickening black smoke, the heat singeing his tactical suit, and crashed through the shattered remains of a window into the cool Tennessee night.
"I'm out," Vlad gasped, sliding down the limestone ridge toward the treeline. "Vance, tell me you've got a clear path to the extraction point."
"The smoke's masking your heat signature perfectly," Vance replied, his shadow briefly visible as he leaped from the oak tree to a lower branch. "Head for the creek at the bottom of the hill. I'll cover your six."
The orange glow of the explosion reflected off the trees as Vlad and Vance sprinted into the dense Nashville woods. They moved like shadows, their boots barely snapping a twig as they navigated the limestone ridges of Oak Hill.
Emerging into a secluded clearing, they reached their getaway vehicle: a black 2025 Mustang Mach-E. The electric motor purred with a silent, menacing hum as the doors unlocked. Vance didn't waste a second; he tossed his collapsible compound bow and his long-range sniper rifle into the trunk, slamming it shut before sliding into the driver's seat.
Vlad climbed into the passenger side, his tactical suit still smelling of smoke and copper. Vance floored it, the Mach-E's instant torque pinning them back into their seats as they blurred onto the dark Tennessee roads.
The Contact
Vlad pulled the Agency tablet from his thigh holster and synced it to the vehicle's Bluetooth. A holographic projection shimmered on the dashboard, and a moment later, the face of Tom, their General Manager, filled the screen.
Tom was a man who commanded fear just as easily as he did admiration. He possessed a rugged, "Superman-esque" handsome face—sharp, classical features, light blonde hair swept back, and piercing green eyes. However, the icy coldness in his gaze and the jagged scar running horizontally across the bridge of his nose gave him a scary, lethal demeanor that kept even the best agents on edge.
"Report," Tom barked, his voice sounding like gravel under a boot.
"The drive is secure, sir," Vlad said, holding the silver casing up to the camera. "The house is... well, it's a total loss. We had heavy-armored interference."
Tom's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. "I heard the blast from the satellites. Efficiency is preferred, Vlad, but results are what matter. You've stirred the hornets' nest."
The New Orders
Tom leaned back, the shadow of his office falling over his scarred face. "You need to go dark. The local authorities and the contractors will be swarming the perimeter within the hour."
* The Safehouse: "Head to the Hyatt House Nashville Downtown-Convention Center," Tom ordered. "I've cleared a secure floor. Get some sleep, eat, and stay off the grid."
* The Extraction: "A private transport will be waiting for you at the airport at 0500 hours. Don't be late. If that drive isn't on my desk by noon, we're going to have a very different conversation."
The screen flickered and went black.
Vance exhaled, steering the Mach-E toward the bright lights of the Nashville skyline. "You heard the man. Let's get to the Hyatt. I'm starving, and I think I still have some of that guard's blood on my sleeve."