Chapter 8 - Night Raid in the Mountains
The snow was falling heavily outside the Montana ranch when the perimeter security alarms began to wail.
It was 2:00 AM. Ryan and I were fast asleep in the master bedroom of the cabin when the shrill screech of the electronic sensors shattered the mountain silence.
I was out of bed in a fraction of a second. Years of elite fighter conditioning meant my adrenaline spiked instantly, bypassing panic and moving straight into tactical execution.
"Stay here," I whispered to Ryan, who was already sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Ev, what's happening?" Ryan asked, his voice tight with anxiety.
"Vance’s desperate," I replied coldly, pulling a heavy-duty tactical flashlight and a steel-weighted training baton from the closet. "Lock the bedroom door behind me. Do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice."
I slipped out into the dimly lit hallway of the cabin. The wind howled against the wooden logs outside, carrying the crunch of heavy boots on fresh snow. Through the frosted kitchen window, I saw three dark, bulky figures moving stealthily across the patio toward the back entrance. They weren't amateur thugs; they moved with military precision, wearing tactical gear and thermal balaclavas.
They weren't here to talk. They were here to break my hands, shatter my knees, and ensure I never stepped foot inside the Madison Square Garden octagon.
I didn't wait for them to break the door down. I unlocked the heavy oak kitchen door, pulled it open with a dramatic creak, and stepped out onto the snowy porch.
The three intruders froze. The lead operative—a hulking brute holding a heavy metal crowbar—stepped forward, his eyes widening in surprise as he realized the target was waiting for him.
"Well, took you long enough," I said, my voice cutting through the freezing mountain air like frozen steel. "I was starting to think Vance hired lazy mercenaries."
The lead operative grunted, signaling his comrades to flank me. "Nothing personal, Mrs. Carter. Just business. Mr. Vance wants you retired permanently."
Before he could swing the crowbar, I closed the distance with terrifying velocity.
Using the slippery snow to my advantage—sliding on my heels like a speed skater—I ducked under his wild swing, drove my palm upward into his chin with concussive force, and swept his legs out from under him. He crashed hard onto the frozen wooden planks, unconscious before his head even hit the floor.
The second operative lunged at me with a stun baton, electricity crackling in the dark.
I spun gracefully to the side, caught his wrist in mid-air, twisted it behind his back with a vicious joint lock, and drove my knee straight into his ribs. He let out a choked gasp of agony and collapsed into the snowbank.
The third operative panicked, dropping his tactical gear and pulling out a heavy-duty zip-tie restraint, rushing me blindly.
I didn't bother striking him. As he lunged, I grabbed the lapels of his tactical vest, dropped my weight backward, and launched him in a textbook sacrifice throw (*tomoe nage*), sending him flying over my head to crash violently against the wooden railing of the porch.
Within thirty seconds, all three mercenaries were unconscious or groaning in the snow.
I stood amidst the falling snowflakes, breathing evenly, my pulse barely elevated. I walked over to the lead operative, reached into his tactical vest, and pulled out a high-end satellite phone. The screen was lit up with a recent call log: *Outgoing call to Marcus Vance.*
I pressed redial.
It rang twice before a nervous, breathless voice answered on the other end. "Report. Is it done?"
I pressed the phone to my ear, a cold, predatory smile spreading across my lips.
"Marcus," I whispered into the receiver. "Your cleaning crew needs some work. They left a terrible mess on my porch."
A sharp, terrified intake of breath echoed through the phone line in New York. Then, absolute silence.
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"I'll see you at Madison Square Garden, Marcus," I said softly. "And bring your checkbook. You're going to need it."
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