Chapter 7 - Fractured Lines
The lights on the sixty-fourth floor died with a dull, heavy *thud*.
Emergency auxiliary power kicked in instantly, bathing the expansive executive floor in an eerie, pulsing amber glow. The continuous hum of the climate control ceased, replaced by the mechanical clank of security shutters descending over the elevator banks down the long hall.
“The secondary power junction was cut from the basement,” Luca said, his voice low, rapid, and devoid of fear. He moved to the credenza behind his desk, pressed a concealed latch beneath the dark walnut molding, and pulled out an ebony-finished Glock 19.
Seeing Luca Moretti hold a gun in a Manhattan office was like watching a ghost materialize in broad daylight. He checked the chamber with a single, practiced flick of his wrist, the brass casing glinting amber in the emergency lighting.
“Luca—”
“Listen to me,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the private back stairwell that led to the executive roof-pad. “Salvatore knows the feds are closing in. He has nothing left to lose. He’s not here to negotiate a buyout. He’s here to take you.”
A cold fist clamped around my heart. “Me?”
“He thinks if he has you, he can force me to clear his exit corridor to Montreal and hand over the offshore accounts,” Luca said, pushing open the heavy steel fire door and pulling me into the concrete stairwell. “He thinks you’re my weakness.”
“Am I?”
The question slipped out before my brain could censor it.
Luca stopped on the landing, three steps above me. He looked down through the amber gloom, his gray eyes burning through the shadows. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear that had escaped my lashes.
“You are the only thing in this world that can bring me to my knees,” he whispered. “Which makes you my absolute priority.”
Suddenly, the steel door below us on the sixty-third floor was kicked open with an explosive bang that reverberated up the concrete shaft.
*“Moretti!”* Salvatore’s voice bounced off the walls, distorted, ragged, and manic. *“You think you can take my docks? You think you can put the feds on my back and play house with your little secretary? Bring her down here, or I burn this tower floor by floor!”*
Luca didn't answer. He shoved me behind his back, raising the weapon with two hands, his elbows locked, his breathing completely rhythmic.
“Up,” Luca commanded in a harsh whisper. “To the roof. Vance has a bird en route from Teterboro. We have four minutes.”
We moved up the stairs, my heels clicking frantically against the concrete until I kicked them off, running in stocking feet across the freezing industrial surfaces. The sound of heavy tactical boots pursued us, moving up the stairs with horrifying speed.
A gun fired from below.
The bullet struck the steel handrail six inches from my hip, sending a spray of sparks and the deafening screech of ricochet through the enclosed stairwell. The concussive boom made my ears ring with high-pitched feedback.
Luca leaned over the rail and returned fire—three rapid, controlled shots. A wet groan and the heavy clatter of a body tumbling down the metal stairs echoed from the floor below.
“Keep moving!” Luca barked, shoving open the heavy roof access door.
The freezing night air hit us like an avalanche.
A December gale was howling across the roof of the Moretti Tower, whipping the snow into a horizontal vortex of blinding white. The city below was an ocean of blurred neon lights, indifferent to the violence playing out eight hundred feet above its streets.
We burst onto the gravel-and-rubber surface of the helipad. The wind was so violent it nearly knocked me off my feet, the cream silk of my blouse plastering against my skin, soaking instantly with freezing sleet.
The roof door behind us was kicked off its hinges.
Salvatore stepped out into the blizzard.
He looked like a corpse that had clawed its way out of frozen ground. His coat was torn, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with blood and snow, and in his right hand he held an automatic shotgun, the heavy barrel leveled directly at my chest.
Behind him stood Julian, his cousin, holding a pistol with hands that shook so violently the barrel wobbled in the freezing air.
“Drop it, Luca!” Salvatore screamed over the roar of the wind. “Drop the piece or I turn your little queen into red mist on this gravel!”
Luca didn't drop the gun. But he didn't fire. He slowly shifted his body until he stood completely in front of me, his massive frame shielding my torso from the gaping muzzle of the shotgun.
“Let her go, Salvatore,” Luca said, his voice cutting through the roar of the blizzard like an executioner’s axe. “This is between us. Take the helicopter. Take the Canadian corridor. Leave the girl.”
Salvatore let out a wet, coughing laugh. “You think I’m stupid? She signed the audit papers! She gave the ATF the manifest serial numbers! There is no Canada for me without the offshore access codes, and she holds the biometric keys on that tablet!”
Julian stepped forward, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Uncle... shoot him! The helicopter is coming! Shoot him now!”
“Shut up, boy!” Salvatore roared.
In that fraction of a second—when Salvatore’s head turned toward Julian—I didn't think about corporate hierarchy. I didn't think about my contract. I thought about the man standing in front of me taking a bullet meant for my heart.
On the roof near my feet lay a heavy steel emergency fire extinguisher, mounted to the exterior housing of the HVAC intake.
May you like
With every ounce of strength in my body, I grabbed the heavy cylinder, hoisted it into the howling wind, and hurled it with a guttural scream directly into Julian’s knees.
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