The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 34

The night had grown colder, the air thick with anticipation. Mackin Jones stood at the edge of his mansion’s vast courtyard, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of headlights approaching through the trees. The roar of engines echoed across the grounds, signalling the arrival of Drake’s men. They were coming, just as Jones had predicted. But this was no surprise attack. Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.

Lambo stood beside him, his expression tense but focused. “They’ve brought more men than we expected,” he muttered, lowering the binoculars.

Jones remained still, his voice calm. “Let them come. The more they bring, the harder they’ll fall.”

Lambo nodded, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. “And if things get messy?”

Jones finally looked at him, his gaze unwavering. “They won’t. We control the situation, not them.”

Lambo hesitated for a moment, then stepped back, pulling out his radio. “Positions, everyone. Stay alert, but do not engage until I give the signal.”

In the distance, the headlights grew closer, followed by the unmistakable sound of motorcycles and heavy-duty trucks. It was clear that Drake wasn’t holding back. He was throwing everything he had into this final assault.

Jones watched the convoy approach, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile. “He’s overplaying his hand.”

Lambo glanced at him. “He doesn’t know we’re ready for him.”

Jones turned away from the lights, heading towards the mansion’s main doors. “And that’s exactly why we’ll win.”

Drake sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, his hands gripping the armrest tightly as they sped towards the estate. His heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and fury. He had spent weeks planning this, gathering every resource he could, every man willing to join his cause. But now, with Jones so close to being toppled, Drake couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“This is it,” he muttered, more to himself than to the driver. “He’s not walking away from this.”

The driver, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, glanced at Drake briefly before focussing back on the road. “You sure about this? Jones has been a step ahead of us before.”

Drake’s jaw clenched. “Not this time. He doesn’t know what’s coming.”

As they neared the gates, Drake leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Cut the lights. We move in fast and hit hard. No one hesitates.”

The driver nodded, flicking off the headlights, and the convoy moved under the cover of darkness.

Inside the mansion, Jones moved through the hallways with purpose, Lambo following closely behind. Every detail of this moment had been meticulously planned. The traps were set, the men were in position, and now it was just a matter of time.

“Do you think he’s desperate enough to come in himself?” Lambo asked, glancing at Jones as they walked.

“He’s here,” Jones replied without hesitation. “Drake won’t delegate this. He’ll want to see me fall with his own eyes.”

They reached the main control room, where several monitors displayed live feeds from various cameras hidden around the estate. Jones scanned the screens, watching as Drake’s convoy split into smaller groups, each team heading towards different entrances.

“Smart,” Lambo said, nodding. “He’s trying to surround us.”

Jones’s lips twitched into a smile. “He’s underestimating our defences."

The radio on Lambo’s belt crackled to life, and one of the guards’ voices came through, tense but controlled. “They’re at the outer perimeter. No sign they know about the traps.”

Lambo lifted the radio. “Hold your position. Let them come closer.”

Jones watched the screens intently, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the desk. “Once they hit the first trap, we move in. Keep them guessing.”

Lambo gave a curt nod, his focus shifting to the monitors. “What about Drake?”

Jones’s eyes darkened. “Leave him to me.”

Drake’s men fanned out across the estate, moving quickly and quietly through the shadows. Their weapons were drawn, their movements precise. They were professionals, but they had no idea what they were walking into.

As one of the teams approached the north wing of the mansion, the lead man raised a hand, signalling them to stop. “Hold up,” he whispered, scanning the area. “Something’s not right.”

The men crouched low, their eyes darting around the darkened grounds. Everything seemed too quiet, too still.

Then it happened.

A loud, mechanical click echoed through the air, followed by a sudden rush of sound as the ground beneath them shifted. The men had no time to react before a series of metal spikes shot up from hidden traps, ensnaring them in a tangle of steel and wire.

“Shit!” one of the men shouted, struggling to free himself as blood trickled from a gash in his leg.

The others scrambled to help, but it was too late. The trap had done its job, disabling half of the team in an instant.

From a distance, Lambo watched through the monitors, a grim smile on his face. “That’s one group down.”

Jones remained calm, his eyes on the screen. “Let the others move in. We need them close.”

Drake cursed under his breath as the radio crackled with reports of his men being taken out by traps. He slammed his fist against the dashboard, fury boiling over. “He’s prepared for us,” he growled. “Damn it, I knew it.”

The driver glanced at him, uncertainty flickering across his face. “What do we do?”

Drake’s eyes blazed with determination. “We push forward. We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

He grabbed the radio and barked orders into it. “All units, regroup and move towards the main house. Ignore the traps. We take him down tonight.”

The driver hesitated, his hands tightening on the wheel. “What about the others? The ones caught in the traps?”

“They’re expendable,” Drake snarled. “Keep moving.”

The truck roared to life again, speeding towards the mansion’s front entrance.

Inside, Jones watched the convoy approach, his expression unreadable. He could feel the tension rising, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This was it. The final confrontation.

Lambo stood beside him, his hand resting on his gun. “They’re coming straight for us now.”

Jones nodded, his mind already calculating the next steps. “Good. That’s what we want.”

The front gates of the mansion swung open, and the trucks barreled through, stopping just short of the grand entrance. Men spilt out of the vehicles, their weapons drawn, moving with military precision.

Drake stepped out of the lead truck, his eyes scanning the front of the mansion. He knew Jones was inside, waiting for him. But he also knew that this wasn’t going to be a clean fight.

Jones stood at the top of the grand staircase inside, his gaze fixed on the front doors. He could feel the weight of his legacy pressing down on him, the culmination of years of betrayal, struggle, and sacrifice. But he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

Lambo moved to the window, peering through the curtains. “It’s him,” he said quietly. “Drake’s here.”

Jones didn’t move, his hands resting on the railing as he stared down at the entrance. “Let him come.”

Outside, Drake signalled to his men, who began moving towards the front doors. They were careful and methodical, checking every corner and every shadow. But Drake wasn’t interested in caution anymore. He wanted Jones dead, and he wanted it done now.

“Go!” Drake barked, and the men surged forward, smashing through the front doors with brutal force.

The echo of footsteps filled the mansion as Drake’s men stormed inside, weapons raised, eyes darting around for any sign of Jones or his guards.

But the mansion was eerily quiet.

Drake stepped inside, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes flicked to the grand staircase, where Jones stood, calm and composed, watching the chaos unfold below him.

“You came all this way,” Jones said, his voice carrying through the room. “For nothing.”

Drake’s face twisted in rage. “You think this is over, Jones? You think you’ve won?”

Jones smiled faintly. “I know I have.”

Drake raised his gun, levelling it at Jones. “I’m going to enjoy watching you fall.”

Jones didn’t flinch; his eyes locked on Drake’s. “No, you won’t.”

At that moment, the sound of gunfire erupted from all sides as Jones’s men, hidden in the shadows, opened fire on Drake’s team. Chaos erupted, the sound of bullets and shouts filling the air.

Drake’s men scrambled for cover, but it was too late. They had walked into the trap, and there was no way out.

Drake dove behind a column, his heart racing as he returned fire. His men were being cut down one by one, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Jones watched from the top of the staircase, his expression unreadable as the battle raged below him. This was the endgame, the moment where everything would be decided.

He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Drake,” he called out, his tone calm, almost casual. “It’s over.”

Drake’s eyes blazed with fury as he ducked behind the column, his chest heaving with rage and desperation. “Not yet, Jones,” he snarled. “Not yet.”