Chapter 5 - Iron and Rain
The first volley of high-caliber rounds shattered the plate-glass windows into a million glittering diamonds.
The sound inside the diner was deafening.
Bullets punched through the laminate booths, ripping through the foam padding and sending clouds of white stuffing into the air.
Glass rained down onto the floor like hail.
Nicholas remained crouched beside his mother, his back pressed against the heavy steel frame of the industrial dishwasher.
Laura had her hands clamped over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut, whispering prayers in broken Italian.
"Stay down," Nicholas ordered without looking at her.
"No matter what happens, you do not stand up."
A muzzle flash erupted from the driver’s side of the lead SUV outside.
Nicholas leaned around the edge of the steel prep table, aligned his night-sights, and fired three controlled rounds through the splintered window frame.
The shooter outside collapsed against the hood of the vehicle, his rifle clattering onto the gravel.
"Left flank!" Marco yelled.
Two men dressed in black tactical jackets rushed through the diner’s side service entrance.
They were carrying submachine guns, sweeping the room with weapon-mounted flashlights.
Before they could acquire their targets, Robert Hale stepped out from behind the dessert refrigerator.
The old man fired the Remington from the hip.
The blast tore through the first intruder, throwing him backward through the screen door.
The second intruder swung his weapon toward Robert, but Nicholas fired twice from across the kitchen.
Both nine-millimeter rounds found the intruder's center mass.
He dropped instantly, his boots drumming briefly against the linoleum before going still.
"How many vehicles?" Nicholas yelled to Marco.
"Two SUVs," Marco shouted back, reloading his Glock with practiced speed.
"At least six more outside."
"They’re spreading out across the parking lot to box us in."
"They have tactical gear."
"These aren't street thugs, Boss."
"These are Victor’s private contract boys from North Jersey."
Nicholas looked at Robert.
"Is there a basement?"
"Root cellar behind the dry storage," Robert answered, racking another shell into his shotgun.
"Leads out to the old grease trap behind the tree line."
"Take Laura," Nicholas commanded.
"Get her into the cellar."
"Nicky, no!" Laura grabbed his sleeve.
Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"I won't leave you again!"
Nicholas looked into the terrified eyes of the woman who had given him his name.
For the first time in twenty-five years, he didn't see an adversary or a phantom.
He saw a mother who had spent a quarter of a century enduring poverty just so he could stay alive.
"You're not leaving me," Nicholas said, peeling her fingers gently from his coat.
"I am protecting my family."
"Go with Robert."
Robert grabbed Laura’s arm and pulled her toward the dry storage door.
Just as the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them, a fragmentation grenade bounced through the shattered front window, rolling across the floor like a metal tin.
"Grenade!" Marco screamed.
Nicholas threw himself behind the heavy cast-iron cooking range.
The explosion ripped through the dining room.
The shockwave tore the front counter from its moorings, scattering plates, coffee pots, and silverware in a blizzard of shrapnel.
Plaster fell from the ceiling in thick sheets.
The air filled with black, choking smoke and the smell of cordite.
Through the haze, three tactical figures moved through the ruined front entrance, their weapons raised.
Nicholas didn't wait for them to clear the smoke.
He rose from behind the cooking range, using the confusion to advance.
He eliminated the first shooter at point-blank range, seized the man's falling carbine, and fired a sustained burst into the second man.
Marco surged from the side corridor, flanking the third attacker and neutralizing him with two precise shots.
The diner was suddenly quiet again, save for the hissing of a punctured water pipe and the distant rumble of thunder.
Nicholas walked over to the man he had just dropped.
The shooter was still breathing, clutching his chest.
Nicholas knelt down, placed the muzzle of his weapon against the man’s forehead, and pulled down the tactical mask.
He recognized the face.
It was Frankie "The Hook" Varga, an enforcer who had been on Victor Moretti’s personal security detail for eight years.
"Who gave the order, Frankie?" Nicholas asked.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
Frankie coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.
"Your... your uncle sends his regards, Nicholas," Frankie whispered, grinning through the agony.
"He said... he said the Moretti table only needs one head."
Nicholas did not hesitate.
He pulled the trigger.
He stood up, turned to Marco, and handed back the carbine.
"Call the clean-up crew from Newark," Nicholas said.
"Tell them to bring three incendiary vans."
"Burn this diner to the foundation."
"Make it look like a propane leak."
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"And find my mother."
"We are going to Scranton."
