Chapter 7 - The Traitor’s Ambush
The storm drainage canal was an arched brick tunnel running beneath the perimeter ridge of the Moretti estate.
Muddy rainwater rushed past their boots, rising to their ankles as they pushed through the dark current.
Roman led the way, his shotgun held low, his bleeding shoulder leaving dark droplets in the swirling brown water.
Grace followed directly behind him, her maid’s shoes soaked and ruined, her fingers numb from the cold.
Every splash of their steps sounded deafeningly loud within the enclosed brick vault.
Behind them, the distant wail of multiple police sirens began to echo through the drainage grates above.
The entire city was waking up to the gunfire at the Moretti manor.
"Sterling has already initiated the media blackout," Walsh said, checking his vintage radio receiver as they moved.
"The dispatch channels are broadcasting a priority alert."
"They are claiming Roman Moretti executed a rival syndicate captain and took hostages inside the estate."
"They’ve labeled all of us as armed and dangerous fugitives."
"Standard operating procedure," Julian remarked with bitter sarcasm.
"Frame the targets, cut off their legal avenues, and execute them on sight under the guise of an active firefight."
They reached the concrete outlet where the drainage canal spilled into an overgrown wooded ravine behind the estate's outer walls.
A gravel service road curved through the trees, normally used by municipal utility trucks.
Parked beneath the dripping canopy of maples sat a reinforced black civilian utility truck with tinted windows and blacked-out rims.
Roman halted at the edge of the culvert.
He raised his hand, signaling absolute silence.
The headlights of the truck were off, but the faint glow of an interior dashboard console illuminated two silhouettes in the front seats.
A third figure stood by the rear bumper, smoking a cigarette beneath a broad umbrella.
The flare of the lighter illuminated the sharp, arrogant profile of Marcus Moretti.
Marcus wore an expensive cashmere overcoat, checking an encrypted smartphone with visible agitation.
"Marcus," Roman whispered, his tone deadlier than any bullet.
"He didn't go straight to the rail yard," Julian noted quietly.
"He stayed here to verify our bodies came out of this culvert."
"He doesn't know Roman survived the library breach," Walsh added.
Grace watched the man who had sat at the head of the dinner table an hour earlier, laughing and pouring vintage wine for guests.
He had condemned dozens of innocent servants, staff, and family members to an execution just to secure a corrupt harbor monopoly.
"We take the truck," Roman commanded softly.
"We need the vehicle to get into South Ward before Sterling’s blockade seals the river bridges."
"Do we kill him?" Julian asked, his thumb resting lightly on the hammer of his weapon.
Roman stepped forward into the drenched underbrush.
"I want him to look me in the eye before he dies."
Roman moved through the ferns like a phantom born of the storm.
Grace, Walsh, and Julian fanned out along the tree line to cut off any retreat toward the road.
Marcus flicked his cigarette butt into a muddy puddle, his breath misting in the cold rain.
"Where the hell are they?" Marcus complained into his phone.
"The sweep team should have cleared the cistern ten minutes ago."
"They aren't coming, Marcus," a voice spoke from the shadows of the culvert.
Marcus spun around violently, dropping his phone into the mud.
He reached inside his cashmere coat for his silver-plated automatic pistol.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip, the heavy barrel of Roman’s shotgun pressed into the hollow of his throat.
The click of the hammer cocking froze Marcus in mid-motion.
The two men inside the truck reached for their sidearms, but Julian and Walsh appeared at both front windows, their muzzles pressed flat against the glass.
"Hands on the dash, boys," Walsh ordered calmly.
"Unless you want your brains decorating this nice leather interior."
The guards complied instantly, raising their trembling palms against the windshield.
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against the cold steel of Roman's shotgun.
"Roman," Marcus stammered, raising his hands slowly.
"Listen to me... you don't know the whole story."
"I know you took forty million dollars from Sterling to let thirty dirty cops slaughter my staff," Roman said, his voice terrifyingly steady.
"They weren't going to kill you, Roman!" Marcus lied, sweat beading on his forehead despite the freezing rain.
"They just wanted the maid!"
"They said she had the decryption key to an old case that could ruin the entire city council!"
"They promised me that if I helped extract her, the state attorneys would dismiss all pending indictments against the Moretti family!"
"I did this for the family!"
Roman stared at his cousin with pure disgust.
"You did this because you were always too weak to lead, and too greedy to follow."
Grace stepped out of the tree line, holding the metallic evidence tube in plain sight.
Marcus’s eyes widened as he saw the cylinder.
"You... you found it," Marcus breathed.
"Where is my father, Marcus?" Grace asked, her voice cutting through the rain with razor sharpness.
Marcus looked at her, a twisted, desperate sneer breaking across his terrified face.
"Your father?" Marcus laughed dryly.
"Your father is buried beneath six feet of reinforced concrete at the Grand Central freight yard, little girl."
"Sterling and your old man's partner put him there fourteen years ago."
Grace froze.
Julian Vance flinched in the shadows beside the truck.
"What did you say?" Julian growled, stepping into the headlights.
Marcus pointed a shaking finger at Julian.
"Ask him!" Marcus shouted.
May you like
"Ask Julian Vance why he didn't die in that car bomb fourteen years ago!"
"Ask him who gave the Eleventh Precinct the access codes to David Miller’s safehouse!"
