Chapter 5 - THE GALA OF THE VAMPIRES
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of black ties, silk gowns, and glittering crystal chandeliers. High-ranking police officials, federal judges, and Manhattan’s elite sipped $1,000-a-bottle champagne while a string quartet played Mozart near the grand staircase.
Judge Richard Sterling stood near the center of the room, holding a glass of scotch. He was a distinguished man of sixty-five, with silver hair, a warm smile, and an impeccably tailored tuxedo.
"To justice," Sterling said, raising his glass to a circle of wealthy donors. "And to the memory of those we’ve lost this year."
"A noble sentiment, Richard," a voice boomed from the back of the circle.
The crowd parted.
Vincent Bellmont stepped through the gathering. He was not wearing a tuxedo. He wore his long black wool coat, still damp from the cemetery rain, his leather boots leaving tracks of dark, drying mud across the pristine white marble floor.
Silence descended over the ballroom like a falling axe. The string quartet stopped playing mid-note.
Sterling’s warm smile vanished instantly. His eyes went wide, his skin turning gray as paper. "Vincent... what... what are you doing here? You look... disheveled."
"I was at the cemetery, Richard," Vincent said, walking slowly toward the judge. The crowd backed away, sensing the lethal energy radiating from the mob boss. "Visiting Ethan."
Sterling swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. He stepped forward, putting a hand out. "Vincent, my friend, we all know your grief is unbearable, but this isn't the place—"
"He spoke to me today, Richard," Vincent interrupted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
The room gasped.
Sterling froze. "What did you say?"
"He told me the grave was cold," Vincent said, stopping two feet from the judge. "He told me the fire wasn't real. And he told me that a man named 'The Shepherd' sold his life for twenty million dollars into a Zurich account."
Sterling’s hand began to tremble. He signaled subtly with his left fingers to two private security guards standing near the pillars. "Vincent, you are having a psychotic break. Guards, please assist Mr. Bellmont out—"
Vincent didn't draw a gun. He moved with the terrifying speed of a striking viper.
He grabbed Sterling by the throat, drove him backward across a catering table, shattering glass plates and champagne flutes, and pinned the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court to the floor under his knee.
The ballroom erupted into screams. Women ran for the exits; men scrambled over chairs. The two security guards pulled their sidearms, but before they could raise them, two shots echoed through the room.
THWACK. THWACK.
Both guards dropped, shot through the shoulders by Victor Vance, who was positioned on the mezzanine balcony with a silenced rifle.
Vincent leaned down, putting his face inches from Sterling’s trembling features. He pulled Ethan’s wet, muddy silver bracelet—the one recovered from the crash site—out of his pocket and shoved it into Sterling’s mouth.
"Choke on it," Vincent snarled. "Tell me where the Montauk entrance is, or I will bleed you on this floor in front of every camera in Manhattan."
"The... the old naval base!" Sterling gagged, blood leaking from his lips as the metal bracelet dug into his gums. "Sub-level three! Under the radar tower! Please, Vincent... I was just a broker! I didn't design the project!"
"Who runs it?" Vincent demanded, digging his thumb into the pressure point behind Sterling’s ear. "WHO IS THE SHEPHERD?"
"It's... it's Admiral Vance!" Sterling sobbed. "Your brother, Vincent! YOUR BROTHER IS THE SHEPHERD!"
Vincent’s mind went blank. The world around him seemed to lose all sound.
Victor Vance... no. Not Victor. His older half-brother, Marcus Vance—the man who had vanished ten years ago after resigning from Naval Intelligence.
Vincent stared down at the weeping judge. "My family?"
"He built Apollo," Sterling choked out. "He needed your shipping lines to move the subjects... you were the only one who had the fleet to bypass customs... he used Ethan to break you so you wouldn't notice the cargo shifts!"
Vincent stood up slowly. He looked down at the pathetic man squirming in champagne and blood.
Vincent pulled his Kimber .45, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger without looking.
BANG.
Judge Sterling went limp.
Vincent turned toward the exit, ignoring the sirens screaming in the streets outside.
"Victor," Vincent said into his earpiece.
May you like
"I heard," Victor’s voice came back, trembling. "Vincent... Marcus is your blood."
"My blood is asleep in a clinic in Newark," Vincent replied, stepping over the threshold into the night. "Everything else is just meat."
