Chapter 6 - The Trail through the Storm
By 8:00 p.m., the storm had reached its peak intensity across Manhattan and Westchester. Heavy, blinding snow fell at a rate of three inches an hour, burying vehicles, blocking bridges, and turning the Hudson River Parkway into a white desert of abandoned cars and flashing emergency lights.
Inside the rear passenger compartment of an armored black Moretti Suburban, Gabriel sat in the dark.
The interior was warm, illuminated only by the green digital displays of three satellite tracking monitors mounted on the bulkhead.
Cole Mercer sat in the front passenger seat, turning around to face his employer.
“We found Dominic Valenti’s dark blue Ford Explorer, Boss,” Cole reported, handing Gabriel a printout of an automated toll-booth license plate reader.
Gabriel raised his eyes. “Where?”
“It was abandoned at a gas station off Exit 9 on the Taconic State Parkway at 5:15 this morning,” Cole said. “About thirty minutes after Sophie found the baby at your estate.”
Gabriel leaned forward, examining the printout. “She drove the Explorer from Lake Placid to Westchester, dropped Daniel over the perimeter wall, and then drove five miles north to Exit 9.”
“Right,” Cole agreed. “The vehicle’s gas tank was empty. The gas station attendant remembers a woman matching Natalie’s description coming into the lobby at 5:30 a.m.”
“Was she bleeding?” Gabriel asked, his voice tight.
“The attendant said she was wearing a long dark winter coat buttoned to her chin,” Cole revealed, pulling up a low-resolution security camera still from the gas station on his tablet. “She looked exhausted, pale as paper, and she paid cash for a bottle of water, a box of gauze bandages, and a ticket on the private regional commuter bus to Manhattan.”
Gabriel stared at the grainy security camera image on the tablet.
It was Natalie.
Her dark curly hair was tied back in a messy knot. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes dark-rimmed with agony and exhaustion. She was holding her left side through her heavy coat—pressing her hand firmly against her lower ribs to control the bleeding from her wound.
She had abandoned the stolen Explorer so the Valentis couldn't track her vehicle. She had bought gauze to wrap her own wound, and she had gotten on a public bus heading straight into the heart of New York City.
“Why Manhattan?” Cole mused, frowning at the map. “If she was running from the Valentis, going into the city during a blizzard seems crazy. There’s nowhere to hide.”
Gabriel stared at the image of her face.
He remembered her Soho art loft. He remembered her closest friends, her gallery contacts, her private routines.
“She isn't running anymore, Cole,” Gabriel said softly, a sudden, horrifying realization dawning in his chest. “She’s out of blood, she’s out of money, and she knows Dominic Valenti’s men are sweeping the state for her.”
“Then why go to Manhattan?”
“Because she thinks Daniel is safe with me,” Gabriel whispered, his pale gray eyes hardening into steel. “And she went back to the one place she knows, to draw the Valentis away from Westchester.”
Cole gasped. “She’s acting as a decoy.”
“She’s drawing Carmine Valenti’s crew into Manhattan so they don't search the estate,” Gabriel said, his voice trembling with a terrifying combination of awe and fury. “She’s sacrificing herself to give me time to protect our son.”
Gabriel reached forward, slamming his hand onto the driver’s leather headrest.
“Drive,” Gabriel commanded the driver. “Midtown Manhattan. Natalie’s old art studio on 10th Avenue.”
“Boss,” the driver said nervously, looking in the rearview mirror at the blinding snowstorm outside. “The bridges are closed by the Port Authority. The police aren't letting non-emergency vehicles into the borough.”
Gabriel reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and dialed a ten-digit private number.
The line rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.
“This is Commissioner Vance.”
“Vance,” Gabriel spoke, his voice carrying the quiet, absolute weight of twenty years of political favors, campaign donations, and hidden leverage over the New York City Police Department. “This is Gabriel Moretti.”
Silence fell over the line for three seconds.
“Gabriel,” the Police Commissioner said cautiously. “It’s eight o'clock on a Sunday during a state-of-emergency blizzard. What do you want?”
“I want the lower level of the George Washington Bridge cleared for my three armored Suburbans in ten minutes,” Gabriel commanded. “And I want your precinct commanders in Midtown to ignore any automatic weapons fire they hear near 10th Avenue for the next two hours.”
Commissioner Vance let out a heavy, bitter breath over the satellite link. “Gabriel... if this is a turf war with the Jersey families—”
“My son was left on my doorstep this morning, Vance,” Gabriel cut him off, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute carnage. “And the people who tried to murder his mother are currently hunting her through Soho. You clear that bridge right now, or I will release twenty years of recorded wiretaps from your brother’s shipping accounts to the Federal prosecutor by midnight.”
Another long, suffocating silence hung over the satellite connection.
“The bridge will be clear in eight minutes,” Commissioner Vance said quietly, then hung up.
Gabriel dropped his phone onto the leather seat.
May you like
He looked out the tinted window at the white wall of falling snow as the heavy armored Suburban accelerated down the empty, icy highway toward Manhattan.
“Hold on, Natalie,” Gabriel whispered into the dark interior of the vehicle, his hand resting over the Polaroid photograph in his breast pocket. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
