Not fireworks, not backfiring cars - Gunfire.
Sustained, Relentless;
The tranquil street of Lagoon Drive transformed in an instant�from wealth and calm to chaos and carnage. The roar of those high-caliber rifles echoed off mansion walls, bounced off glass facades, reverberated through the lagoon reeds like a war cry.
Thirty seconds. That�s all it took.
But for the residents, it stretched into an eternity.
By the time one of the braver neighbors dared crack open a fortified gate and peer out, the scene was a nightmare rendered in daylight: the Cullinan sat in the middle of the street, smoking, lifeless, Its once-gleaming frame was now a carcass�perforated, burnt, torn wide open by the brutal force of Russian steel.
Just around the corner, the two private security guards�who had, moments earlier, waved respectfully at Quinton�were now sprinting back toward the mansion.
But they were too late.
Their patrol vehicle was gone�commandeered by the assassins� accomplices in the minutes leading up to the hit. Their rifles too had vanished, stripped from them with clinical precision. Now, weaponless and breathless, they arrived not as defenders, but as witnesses.
Lagoon Drive had been breached.
And Quinton De Lange was gone.