Chương 7 - The Midnight Ambush
We hit the compound’s perimeter just as the first mortar shell detonated.
The explosion tore through the front guardhouse in a blooming cloud of orange fire, black smoke, and flying limestone. The shockwave slammed into the Maybach, rocking the heavy armored car on its chassis.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the dense tree line surrounding the estate—the rhythmic, tearing sound of Kalashnikovs ripping into the dark.
“Head down!” Gabriel roared, reaching across the console, his massive hand pushing my shoulders down onto the floorboards of the backseat as bullets peppered the reinforced windows like hail on a tin roof.
The glass spiderwebbed with white fractures, but held.
Enzo slammed his foot on the accelerator, smashing through the reinforced wooden service gate, the engine screaming as the car barreled down the private asphalt drive toward the mansion’s rear courtyard.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the trees. Moretti soldiers returned fire from behind granite pillars and overturned stone benches, the night air turning into a cacophony of deafening thunder, whistling lead, and screaming men.
The Maybach skidded to a halt near the underground delivery bay.
“Go, go, go!” Gabriel shoved his door open, rolling out of the vehicle with a speed that defied his injured hip, bringing his SIG Sauer up and firing three double-taps into the darkness. Three figures in tactical gear crumpled onto the wet asphalt.
Enzo grabbed my arm, pulling me out into the freezing rain. “Mrs. Moretti, this way!”
We sprinted through the steel service door into the basement corridor. The lights overhead flickered violently, powered by emergency backup generators that hummed in the depths of the mansion.
Gunfire echoed from the floors above. Plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling like toxic snow.
“Where is Luke?” Gabriel demanded as he limped rapidly down the concrete hall, replacing his empty magazine with a fresh one without breaking stride.
A young Moretti soldier, bleeding from a shrapnel wound on his temple, leaned against the wall holding a shotgun. “Cellar was breached ten minutes ago, Don Gabriel! Russo’s hit team cut the power to the boathouse. They blew the lock from the outside. Luke is loose!”
Before Gabriel could reply, the steel door at the far end of the corridor was kicked off its hinges with a deafening bang.
Two men in black balaclavas stepped through, assault rifles raised.
Enzo threw himself in front of me, drawing his sidearm, but a burst of automatic fire ripped through his chest, spraying hot crimson across the whitewashed concrete wall. He collapsed without a sound.
“Enzo!” I screamed, dropping to my knees beside him.
Gabriel didn't hesitate. He dropped his cane, stepped into the open hallway, and fired four rounds in rapid succession. Both intruders dropped with fatal headshots, their rifles clattering to the floor.
Gabriel staggered, his right leg buckling beneath him without the cane to support his weight. He slammed heavily against the concrete wall, clutching his hip, his breath coming in ragged, agonized gasps.
“Gabriel!”
I scrambled across the floor, ignoring the blood soaking into the hem of my midnight-blue gown. I reached for his fallen cane, grabbed it, and pulled myself up to his side, sliding my shoulder beneath his arm to take his weight.
“I told you to get to the vault,” Gabriel gasped out, sweat and rain dripping down his pale face, his jaw clenched tight against blinding agony.
“Shut up,” I snapped, my adrenaline burning through the terror. “You can't walk without this cane, and you can't shoot if you're lying on the floor. We move together.”
Gabriel looked at me, his gray eyes wide with disbelief, then a grim, fierce nod cut through the pain. “The weapons locker. End of the corridor. Code is 0-4-1-9.”
We moved down the hall, my shoulder bearing a crushing amount of his weight as he dragged his useless right leg. Every footstep was an agony, but he kept his weapon raised, sweeping every doorway with lethal precision.
We reached the heavy steel locker. My trembling fingers punched the keypad: *0-4-1-9.*
The magnetic lock released with a heavy clunk.
Inside hung a tactical arsenal: customized Benelli shotguns, submachine guns, spare plates, and medical kits.
I didn't reach for a handgun. I reached for a short-barreled tactical 12-gauge shotgun, racked the slide back with a loud, mechanical *clack*, and clicked the safety off.
Gabriel stared at me, his eyebrows raised in genuine shock. “Where did you learn to handle that?”
“My father wasn't always a bankrupt coward,” I said coldly, wiping rain from my forehead. “He was an infantry Marine before he bought his first truck. He taught me to shoot clay pigeons when I was twelve.”
Gunshots echoed from the upper landing of the cellar stairs.
Footsteps descended. Two pairs of boots.
Gabriel raised his pistol, pushing me behind his broad shoulder, preparing to fire.
“Wait,” a familiar, greasy voice echoed down the concrete stairwell. “Hold your fire, Gabriel. You wouldn't want to shoot your own little brother, would you?”
Luke stepped onto the concrete landing.
He was dressed in dark tactical gear, an assault rifle slung across his chest. Standing beside him was a towering, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and cold, reptilian eyes—Dimitri Russo, the ruthless Don of Chicago’s Russian syndicate.
Luke smiled, though his teeth were stained with blood and his eyes held the feverish, unhinged glow of a cornered hyena.
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“Look at you, Gabriel,” Luke mocked, raising his rifle. “Propped up by a woman who hates you, bleeding on the concrete like a dog. You should have stayed down at the docks three years ago. It would have saved us both a lot of paperwork.”
***
