Chapter 9 - The Blood-Red Tide
The Suburban was parked in an alley three hundred yards from Harbor Lights, its engine idling softly, its darkened bulletproof glass cutting off the sound of the ocean wind whipping through the industrial docklands.
Two guards sat in the front seats, their eyes glued to thermal imaging monitors mounted on the dashboard.
I sat in the back, clutching the silver key around my neck, staring at the digital clock on the console.
11:42 PM.
11:43 PM.
11:44 PM.
The radio on the console suddenly burst into static.
"Alpha lead, this is Bravo two," a voice crackled through the speaker, heavy with gunfire echoing in the background. "Ambush confirmed! The Serbians opened fire from the roof! We have two men down!"
My heart stopped. I leaned forward, gripping the leather headrest of the front seat. "Dante? Where is Dante?"
"Silent, girl!" the driver barked, reaching for his sidearm.
Static filled the speaker again, followed by the deep, heavy thud of controlled semi-automatic fire—THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
"This is Moretti," Dante’s voice came through the radio, crisp, clear, entirely devoid of panic. "The roof is clear. Marcone is secured. Julian, prepare the lower dock for secondary sweep."
"Copy, Don," Julian’s voice responded. "Moving in."
A sigh of relief escaped my lips, so heavy my whole body shook. I sank back into the leather seat, closing my eyes, my hand tightening around the silver key.
Then, the driver’s side window shattered.
It didn't break—the reinforced bulletproof glass held together in a spiderweb pattern—but a heavy iron bar slammed against the frame again, followed by the sharp, deafening blast of a heavy shotgun breaching round tearing through the lock housing.
The door burst open.
A man in a black tactical mask dragged the driver out into the wet alley before he could draw his weapon.
The second guard turned, pulling his pistol, but a silenced shot rang through the cabin—POOF—and he collapsed across the steering wheel, blood spraying across the dashboard.
I screamed, scrambling backward toward the far door, but a heavy hand reached into the rear cabin, grabbing my wool coat and hauling me out into the freezing rain.
I fell onto the wet asphalt, my knees hitting the pavement hard.
Standing over me was Julian.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, stained with dark streaks of blood, and in his right hand, he held a long, silenced automatic pistol.
"Julian?" I gasped, blood dripping from my scraped hand onto the wet gravel. "What... what are you doing?"
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Julian looked down at me, his brown eyes cold, flat, utterly devoid of emotion.
"I told you, Miss Fields," Julian said softly, pointing the suppressor directly at my forehead. "The Don’s last wife thought she was indispensable too."
