Quinton tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made his choice.
He floored it.
As Quinton accelerated toward the gate, the trap snapped shut.
Four men emerged from either side of the delivery truck�calm, deliberate, and armed with weapons rarely seen outside war zones. Russian OSV-96s - Twelve-point-seven by one-zero-eight millimeter, anti-materiel rifles designed to punch through armor, bunkers, and anything else foolish enough to stand in their path.
Quinton barely had time to register the glint of steel before the first volley erupted.
His Cullinan was armored�military grade, reinforced glass, bulletproof bodywork, the best money could buy. But what no one had told him�what no brochure or security consultant ever said aloud�was that even fortresses crumble when faced with enough force at close range.
And this was force.
These weren�t your average street guns. No R5s. No AK-47s; these were battlefield weapons�the kind seen in Ukraine, in Gaza, in places where nations bled. Not in the leafy suburbs of Umhlanga. Not on Lagoon Drive.
The only explanation was chillingly clear: they knew exactly how his Cullinan was armored, knew its limits, its weak points and its fail zones. This wasn�t improvisation�this was precision. This was the Brazilians.
The first rounds whizzed past his head�two high-velocity slugs tearing through the passenger-side window like it was tissue. Quinton flinched, ducked, swerved. But the gunmen had closed the distance. And at this range, the OSV-96s were unstoppable.
The impact was deafening.
Rounds punched into the Rolls-Royce like thunderclaps. The windshield shattered. Metal tore. The reinforced body panels warped and buckled. Each shot was a hammer blow - a message. A sentence being carved into steel: There is no sanctuary.
Inside the mansion, the De Lange household had just begun to prepare for the June 16th tradition�children gathering, stories ready to be told. And then came the sound,