Chapter 6 - THE BLOOD LINE
The rain had turned into a thick, ocean fog by the time Vincent reached the eastern tip of Long Island.
Montauk Point was a barren desolate spit of land where the Atlantic Ocean slammed violently against jagged gray rocks. Standing on the bluffs, towering over the crashing surf, was the abandoned air force radar tower—a massive, rusted steel dish pointing uselessly at the dark sky.
Vincent did not go alone.
Behind his black SUV sat four armored troop transports. Inside were thirty men—not syndicate thugs, but the remnant of Vincent’s old elite war council: former military contractors, silent killers who had served with him during the waterfront wars of the nineties. They were dressed in black tactical gear, armed with short-barreled assault rifles, night-vision optics, and breach explosives.
Standing beside Vincent was Dr. Harrison.
"Why am I here, Vincent?" Harrison asked, shivering against the salt wind. "I'm a surgeon, not a soldier."
"Because when I open those cages, those kids will be in shock," Vincent said, adjusting his tactical vest. "You bring them back. I kill everything that tries to stop you."
"And your brother?"
Vincent picked up a high-capacity magazine, slotted it into his rifle, and racked the bolt. "Marcus died ten years ago. Whatever is down there is just a target."
At 0200 hours, the breach began.
Vincent’s team used thermite charges to melt through the reinforced steel storm doors at the base of the radar tower. The metal groaned, blinding white sparks showering down into the dark stairwell that led straight down into the bedrock.
"Clear!" the lead point-man shouted.
Vincent descended first, night-vision goggles flipped down over his eyes.
The air changed instantly as they went deeper. The smell of salt water gave way to the sharp, sterile stench of industrial bleach, ozone, and copper—the distinct smell of fresh blood.
Sub-level one was empty: abandoned offices, broken monitors, stacks of shredded documents. Marcus’s team had already begun destroying evidence the moment Sterling died at the Plaza.
"They're burning the floor," one of Vincent’s men warned, pointing to smoke pouring out of the ventilation shafts.
"Move fast!" Vincent ordered, descending to Sub-level three.
They hit the heavy blast door at the bottom of the stairs. Unlike the upper levels, this door was active—a red LED scanner blinked in the center of the steel frame.
Vincent didn't bother trying to hack it. He pulled a block of C4 military explosive from his pack, slapped it directly against the locking mechanism, inserted a detonator, and backed around the corner.
"Fire in the hole!"
BOOM!
The blast blew the door off its hinges, sending it crashing into the corridor beyond.
Vincent rounded the corner before the smoke even cleared, his rifle raised to his shoulder.
The corridor beyond was lined with glass containment units.
Inside were children.
Dozens of them. Wearing gray hospital gowns, sitting on small steel cots, their eyes wide with terror as the smoke rolled past their cages.
Vincent’s breath hitched in his throat.
"Dad?" a tiny voice squeaked from the nearest cell.
Vincent turned. A little girl with blonde hair, no older than eight, was clinging to the acrylic glass, staring at Vincent’s tactical vest.
"Are you... are you Ethan’s dad?" she whimpered.
Vincent dropped his rifle to its sling, rushed to the glass, and slammed his boot against the manual override lever beside the frame. The door hissed open.
"I'm here," Vincent said, his voice softer than any of his men had ever heard it. "I'm Ethan’s dad. You're going home tonight, little girl."
"He told us you were coming," she sobbed, burying her face into Vincent’s vest. "Ethan told us you would come if he got out."
Vincent looked back at his men. "Harrison! Get these kids up the stairs! Secure the transports!"
"Vincent, look out!" Harrison screamed.
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From the far end of the corridor, an automated heavy machine gun turret dropped from the ceiling, its dual barrels spinning up with a terrifying electric whine.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
