Chapter 49: Incursion

Chapter 49 - 49: IncursionThe night air hung thick and humid over the Purnas estate. The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting restless shadows over the sprawling grounds.

In the distance, Cortez, one of the older security watchers, strolled toward the garage, a beer bottle in each hand. He hummed an old folk tune under his breath, his gait relaxed, almost lazy. It was supposed to be a quiet night—the kind of night that dragged on with idle chatter and cheap beer.

But as he neared the garage doors, something snagged his attention.

A dark figure moved inside the mansion's living room. The shadow glided across the room, rifle held low, scanning the area with a cold, predatory focus. The intruder's face was obscured by a balaclava, the black tactical gear blending seamlessly with the dim interior.

Cortez's breath hitched. His heart pounded, and a chill ran down his spine. He ducked behind a bush, the beer bottles slipping from his hands and rolling into the grass, forgotten.

Adrenaline surged through him, tightening his muscles, sharpening his focus. He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the barracks where the other guards were stationed. Then he took off in a low sprint, moving silently along the shadows, his mind racing with only one thought: Get to Pedro.

Inside the garage basement, the air was tense and stifling. A small fan whirred from the corner, but the air felt like concrete—thick and unmoving.

Linkman sat hunched over the workstation, sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he hungrily scanned the progress bar on the computer screen. The hard drive indicator pulsed a steady red. The extraction was at 67%.

Beside him, Jeremy shifted nervously, his eyes flitting between the computer and the heavy steel door behind them. He was a solid man in his mid-thirties, dark eyes narrowed with agitation. The silence was too oppressive, too heavy.

He licked his lips. "How much longer?"

Linkman didn't look away from the screen. "Three minutes. Maybe less if this thing doesn't lag."



Before Jeremy could respond, the alarm blared to life—shrill, deafening. Red emergency lights began to pulse along the walls, casting violent, flashing shadows.


"Shit! Shit!" Jeremy yanked out his radio, the static crackling. His pulse quickened, blood roaring in his ears. "All teams, report! Who the hell got made?"

The radio erupted with a burst of static. "Sir, everything here is clear. No movement on our end," came the response from the leader of Team Charlie.

Jeremy gritted his teeth, jaw clenched tight. "Goddammit. We're burned. Weapons free! Repeat, weapons free! Buy us three minutes!"

"Roger that."

Across the estate, at the watcher and guards' barracks, the tension was palpable. The room was small, cluttered with mismatched chairs and the lingering scent of stale coffee. Eight guards remained—down from the usual eighteen.

The others had left hours ago, relieved by Don Estello's sudden announcement of a week-long paid leave. Three others were either dead or somewhere outside the mansion's perimeter.

Pedro, a grizzled man in his late fifties, stood at the center of the room, shoulders broad and chest heaving. He wore an old military jacket over his plain black shirt, a memento from a life he had long left behind.

He grabbed an M16 rifle from the gun closet, checking the magazine, then chambering a round with a smooth, practiced motion. "Listen up!" he barked, voice echoing through the barracks.

The men turned to face him, their expressions tight, eyes dark.

"They're inside. Armed. Organized," Pedro said, his tone grim. "Don Estello saved my life once. Helped my eldest graduate. I owe him everything. So I'm going out there. Anyone willing to fight, grab a weapon. The rest of you—call the police and get the hell out."

Four men stepped forward without hesitation, all older staff who had served the Purnas family for over fifteen years. Their faces were stern, eyes narrowed with steely resolve.

Pedro's gaze flicked to the remaining three—young, green, and terrified. "You three. Call the police. Then run. Don't try to be heroes. Got it?"

They nodded, wide-eyed, before scrambling for the phone.

Pedro glanced at the four volunteers, their hands already gripping their weapons. "You know what to do. Aim low, stay in cover. Watch each other's backs."

They moved out, their steps quick but measured, heading toward the front gardens. The air was electric, every rustle of leaves and chirp of crickets suddenly magnified.

Before they reached the main house, a shot echoed through the courtyard. The crack was sharp, almost deafening.

Emilio, one of the volunteers, staggered back, a burst of blood staining his shirt. He gritted his teeth, hissing through the pain. But he didn't fall. The bullet hadn't penetrated his flesh. Instead, it clinked to the ground, flattened.

Pedro's eyes flicked to Emilio's neck. The amulet, a small silver pendant, hung there, gleaming faintly beneath the moonlight. The protective charm had worked—just as expected.

Emilio straightened, adrenaline overriding the pain. "I'm good," he grunted, gripping his rifle tighter.

Emilio straightened, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The pain throbbed through his shoulder, but the amulet had done its job—the bullet hadn't pierced his skin. His hand tightened around the rifle, eyes dark with determination. "I'm good," he growled.

Pedro's jaw clenched. The memory of the past haunted his mind—a time when he was a young, idealistic recruit in the CAFGU, the Citizen Armed Force Geographical Unit. Back then, he had patrolled the jungle rivers, his team stationed at chokepoints to prevent insurgent crossings. They were trained to be relentless, ruthless, and to always protect their brothers in arms.

But that was before the unit was decommissioned. Before the bloodshed, the endless firefights, and the day his best friends were cut down by gunfire while he lay in the mud, helpless. Before he returned to a civilian life with no purpose, burning through his savings and drowning in cheap liquor and drugs, watching his pregnant wife struggle to make ends meet.



Then, Don Estello Purnas came along. The old man took him in, no questions asked. Gave him a job, a home, and treated him with the kind of respect Pedro thought he no longer deserved.

Now, Pedro stood at the head of his small security team, his heart pounding, sweat beading down his neck as he peered through the bushes at the mansion. Smoke curled up from the shattered windows. Muffled gunfire echoed inside.

"We're advancing," Pedro said, voice cold and resolute. He slipped the amulet from beneath his shirt, the medallion gleaming silver in the moonlight. He gripped it tight, the Latin prayer falling from his lips like a war chant.

"Omnipotens Deus, custodi nos a malis," he whispered. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

The other four guards—men who had served under Don Estello for over a decade—murmured the same prayer, clutching their own medallions. They weren't soldiers anymore, but tonight, they would fight like they were.

"Move," Pedro ordered, rising to a low crouch. They advanced through the garden, the wet grass crunching beneath their boots. Emilio, despite the pain, kept pace, jaw set in grim determination.

Inside the mansion, Jeremy stared at windows, showed Pedro and his men, marching forward like vengeful wraiths, bullets ricocheting off their bodies.

His jaw clenched. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. One of his men, Kyle, had just unloaded a full clip into Pedro's chest. The rounds hit Pedro squarely, tearing through his shirt—but not his flesh. The bullets flattened and fell to the ground like coins tossed to a beggar.

Kyle stepped back, eyes wide, hands shaking. "What the hell is this?!"

Jeremy's knuckles whitened as he gripped his rifle. He had seen some wild shit during his time as a PMC in Syria and Afghanistan, but nothing like this.

The radio crackled. "Sir," Mario's voice came through, tight and panicked. "I suggest we retreat and let them in. We can't kill them unless we spray them with rice."

Jeremy blinked. "Rice? You've got to be kidding me, Mario."

"I know how it sounds," Mario said, the desperation clear in his voice. "But it's the only way. They're using charms. Amulets blessed by priests or witches. I've seen it before. Rice can disrupt it—makes them vulnerable."

Jeremy swallowed, eyes darting back to the screen. Pedro and his men were closing in, advancing through the garden as if the bullets were mere raindrops. "Fine," he muttered, voice low and seething. "Take two men and find what you need. I don't care if you have to raid a grocery store. Move."

Mario's voice was curt. "Understood."

Outside, Pedro and his men advanced through the garden. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and burning wood. Emilio staggered, clutching his shoulder, but he kept moving.

Pedro's eyes were cold, focused. He raised his rifle and fired a controlled burst at one of the intruders crouched behind the overturned patio table. The man jerked back, blood spraying from his neck.

Another armed intruder popped up from behind the hedges, aiming for Emilio. Pedro didn't think—he just reacted. He shoved Emilio aside, his own body absorbing the gunfire. Bullets struck his chest, his ribs, even his face. The force of each impact made him stagger, but none penetrated.

The shooter's eyes widened. "What the fuck are you?!"

Pedro's gaze was dark, unyielding. "I'm a father," he growled, stepping forward and slamming the butt of his rifle into the man's jaw. Bone crunched. The man dropped, unconscious, blood pooling beneath him.

Emilio regained his footing, wiping sweat and blood from his brow. "You okay?" he asked, breathless.

Pedro nodded, his breathing ragged but steady. "Don Estello gave me a life. I'm not letting some foreign bastards take it away."

Inside the mansion, Linkman's fingers danced across the keyboard. The extraction progress bar ticked to 90%, the hard drive's indicator light flashing frantically.

Jeremy stalked toward him, jaw clenched. "Status?"



Linkman didn't look up. "Almost there. One more minute."

Jeremy's eyes narrowed, the tension in his muscles coiling tighter. In the distance, he could hear the firefight intensifying. The sound of glass shattering. The rapid pop of gunfire.

He pressed the earpiece tighter against his ear. "Mario. Status."

"Still looking, sir," Mario panted, breath heavy as he and his men tore through the pantry, tossing boxes of food and supplies onto the floor.

"Hurry the fuck up," Jeremy snarled, sweat beading along his hairline. "We don't have time. Linkman, you better get that data or we're all dead."

Back in the garden, Pedro knelt beside Emilio, pulling him into cover behind a toppled stone bench. The others took up defensive positions, rifles aimed, eyes sharp.

"Pedro," Emilio said, voice shaking. "What if we don't make it?"

Pedro glanced down at the medallion clenched in his fist. His mind flashed to his children—their innocent faces asleep in the room next to his, his wife's tired but loving eyes as she held their newborn.

His grip tightened. "We will. As long as we breathe, we fight. For Don Estello. For our families."

A bullet whizzed past, slamming into the stone bench, chipping off a piece of marble. Emilio flinched, but Pedro remained still.

"Hold your ground," Pedro growled. "We will till the very end!"

And as the darkness thickened, as gunfire lit up the night like distant lightning, Pedro's eyes blazed with the fury of a man who had already lost everything once—and would rather die than lose it again.