We dropped them fast—non-lethal takedowns when possible, fatal only when necessary. The Brotherhood had chosen violence; we chose discipline. Inside the mansion, Graham was waiting. He stood in a marble hallway with two rifles crossed over his chest, smirking like he was welcoming a guest.
“So the great Kyle Cooper finally shows up,” he taunted. “Shame about the boy. But you soldiers love losing things, don’t you?” I raised my weapon. “You’re done, Graham.” He tilted his head, amused. “No. See, my brothers promised open doors for me. You can’t touch a man with powerful friends.”
“Those friends won’t save you tonight.” His expression faltered—just for a second. Then he swung his rifle upward. Harper fired first. Graham collapsed before he could pull the trigger. It should have been over.
But the moment Graham hit the ground, a hidden blast door slammed open behind us. Heavy boots thundered. A squad of armed men—far too trained to be random criminals—stormed the hall.
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