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2024-10-29 19:42:56The mansion was alive with gunfire, the sharp cracks of bullets echoing through the grand halls. Drake’s men, caught off guard by Jones’s ambush, scrambled for cover, firing wildly at unseen enemies. The air was thick with smoke; the smell of gunpowder was heavy. Chaos reigned, but through it all, Mackin Jones stood calm, watching the storm he had orchestrated.
Drake dove behind a marble pillar, his heart hammering in his chest. The sight of his men being mowed down, one by one, filled him with a rage he hadn’t known he could feel. He had thought this would be easy. He had thought brute force and numbers would be enough. But once again, Jones had outmanoeuvred him.
From his cover, Drake peered out, his eyes narrowing on the figure of Mackin standing atop the grand staircase, his face unreadable. Drake gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the grip of his gun. The desire to shoot Jones where he stood, to end this once and for all, burned through him.
“Mackin!” Drake roared, his voice echoing through the mansion. “Come down here and face me!”
Jones didn’t flinch, his dark eyes steady. “You always were impatient, Drake. You never did know how to play the long game.”
Drake fired a shot, the bullet missing Jones by inches as it shattered the bannister. “You think this is a game?!” he spat, his face contorted with fury. “I’m going to kill you!”
Jones smiled faintly, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve already lost.”
Drake’s anger boiled over, his mind racing. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He had the men, the firepower. But now, as the bodies of his men piled up around him, he realised just how far out of his depth he was. His father had been right—Jones was more dangerous than they had ever imagined.
“Shut up!” Drake screamed, firing again. “You’re nothing, Jones! Do you think money and power make you untouchable? You think you can stand up there and watch while I—”
Before Drake could finish, one of Jones’s men, hidden in the shadows, fired a shot that grazed Drake’s arm, sending a shock of pain through his body. Drake cursed, clutching the wound as he ducked back behind the pillar, his breathing ragged.
“You’re weak, Drake,” Jones said, his voice calm and cutting through the gunfire. “You always were. That’s why you’ll never win. You rely on force, on threats, but you don’t understand what real power is.”
Drake’s vision blurred with rage as he pressed a hand to his bleeding arm. “And what is real power, Mackin? Huh? Enlighten me!”
Jones began descending the staircase, his steps slow and measured. “Power isn’t about how many men you have or how many guns you carry. It’s about control. The ability to predict and anticipate your opponent’s every move. That’s how you win.”
Drake’s eyes flicked toward his remaining men, most of whom were now pinned down by Jones’s forces. His breathing quickened. He needed to change the momentum, to do something unexpected. His mind raced, the edges of panic creeping in. He glanced at the back entrance, his escape route, but something stopped him.
No. He couldn’t run. Not now. Not with Jones standing above him, watching him crumble. Drake gritted his teeth, determination hardening in his eyes.
“I’m not done yet,” Drake muttered to himself.
Then, with a surge of adrenaline, he leapt out from behind the pillar, firing wildly as he charged up the stairs towards Jones. “You think you can break me?!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you!”
The gunfire rang out in rapid succession, but Jones didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, his gaze locked on Drake. As the bullets whiz past him, he raises his hand. In an instant, one of his hidden snipers, perched high in the rafters, fired a single shot.
Drake stumbled mid-charge, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. He looked down, his hand pressing against his side, where blood began to seep through his shirt. His vision swam as the pain hit him like a freight train. His knees buckled, and the gun slipped from his grasp, clattering down the stairs.
He collapsed onto the steps, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Everything felt distant, as though the world was moving in slow motion.
Jones descended the rest of the staircase, stopping just a few steps above Drake. He looked down at his cousin, his face impassive. There was no gloating, no triumph—just the cold certainty of a man who had already won long before the battle had even begun.
“Why…?” Drake choked, his voice barely more than a whisper. His vision blurred as he struggled to focus on Jones. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
Jones crouched down, his voice low but firm. “Because death is too easy for you, Drake. You’ve spent your life thinking that power comes from fear, from force. But power—real power—is about control. And now I control everything.”
Drake’s breaths were laboured, his strength fading. “You... you think this is over?”
Jones tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Drake’s. “It’s over for you.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the sounds of gunfire dying down as Drake’s men surrendered or fell. Lambo appeared at the base of the stairs, his gun lowered as he surveyed the scene.
“We’ve got them, boss,” Lambo said, his voice steady. “All of them.”
Jones didn’t move, his eyes still on Drake. “Good.”
Drake’s vision swam, his body growing heavier by the second. He felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a crushing wave. Everything he had fought for, everything he had schemed for, was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
With a final, shallow breath, Drake’s body slumped against the cold marble steps, his eyes glassy, unfocused.
Jones stood, straightening his jacket as he turned to Lambo. “Get rid of the bodies. And make sure Drake gets the medical attention he needs.”
Lambo raised an eyebrow. “You’re letting him live?”
Jones glanced back at Drake’s motionless form. “He’s done. Let him rot in a cell or a hospital bed. It doesn’t matter.”
Lambo nodded, giving a sharp whistle to the rest of the team to begin clearing the mansion.
Jones walked through the debris, stepping over the fallen bodies of Drake’s men, his mind already moving to the next step. This battle was over, but the war for control, for total dominance over the Mackin family, was just beginning. His victory tonight had cemented his position, but there were still loose ends to tie up. And there was still the matter of Lana.
The following morning, the sun crept over the horizon, casting a soft glow over the mansion’s grounds. The bodies had been cleared, the evidence wiped clean. From the outside, it looked as though nothing had happened at all. But inside, everything had changed.
Mackin Jones stood on the balcony of his private study, the cool morning air brushing against his face. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he glanced at the screen. It was a message from Lana.
I heard what happened. Can we talk?
Jones stared at the message for a moment before slipping the phone back into his pocket. He knew that conversation would come eventually, but not now. Not today.
As he looked out over the city, his city, he felt a sense of calm settle over him. The storm had passed, and he was still standing. Stronger, and more powerful than ever before. Drake had been a formidable opponent, but now he was broken, a shadow of the man he once was.
Jones took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his victory settle on his shoulders. He had won the battle, but the future stretched out before him, uncertain and filled with new challenges. He would face them, just as he had faced everything else—head-on, with a clear mind and a ruthless heart.
Because Mackin Jones was not a man who gave up. He was a man who rose, no matter how many times the world tried to bring him down.
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