Chapter 10 - Darkness on the Water
The gunfire intensified, concrete chips and splintered wood raining down like shrapnel across the warehouse floor.
Patrick was screaming from his iron pillar, terrified that a stray burst would rip through his unprotected chest.
"Luca! Untie me! You bastards, they'll kill me too!" Patrick shrieked, his voice cracking with animal terror.
Luca ignored him completely.
He fired two controlled, double-tap shots around the edge of the server container.
A Montreal gunman near the doorway dropped instantly to the concrete with a wet thud.
"Rachel, go!" Luca commanded.
I dropped my left crutch, keeping my weight entirely on my left leg and the heavy protective boot on my right foot.
I lunged forward, sliding across the damp concrete toward the massive gray breaker box mounted against the brick wall.
Bullets pinged off the sheet metal inches above my head, showering my hair with burning sparks.
I reached the panel, grabbed the heavy iron throw-switch with both hands, and slammed it downward with every ounce of strength I had left.
A massive, blinding electric arc flashed across the copper contacts.
The loud industrial hum of the refrigeration units died instantly.
The high-pressure halogen lamps mounted forty feet above blinked out.
The entire warehouse was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The only light came from the cold gray fog drifting through the bullet-riddled doorway and the erratic yellow muzzle flashes of the Montreal hitmen.
The sudden blackness created instant, chaotic panic among the attackers.
"Check your infrared! Check your night vision!" a French-accented voice barked near the front bay.
"Where is Moretti? Light the flares!"
In the dark, Luca Moretti became a ghost.
I pressed my back against the cold brick wall, holding the small Glock with both hands, listening to the deadly choreography of the room.
A soft, leather footstep brushed the concrete five yards to my left.
A muffled pop-pop from Luca's suppressed sidearm followed.
A heavy body hit the floorboards without a cry.
Another muzzle flash illuminated a tactical mercenary standing near Patrick's pillar.
Before the man could adjust his sights, Thomas Vance stepped out from behind a forklift, firing three heavy rounds directly into the attacker's center mass.
The mercenary collapsed across Patrick's feet, his rifle clattering across the floor.
Patrick let out a high-pitched, hysterical whimper in the dark.
I shifted my grip on the weapon, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim, blueish ambient light filtering from the harbor waters outside.
Through the open loading bay, I saw a fourth man moving cautiously along the wall.
He wasn't looking for Luca or Thomas.
He was heading straight toward the breaker box.
Straight toward me.
He was wearing body armor and carrying a tactical shotgun, his thumb hovering over the weapon's mounted flashlight.
If he turned that light on, he would see me huddled against the junction box before I could scramble away on my boot.
My heart hammered in my ears so loudly it felt like it would crack my ribs.
I remembered my father’s voice from twenty years ago on the training range behind the rail yards:
Don't close your eyes when you pull the trigger, Rachel. Let the iron sight find the center of the shadow.
I raised the small Glock, resting my forearms against the top of my raised knee for stabilization.
The mercenary took one step closer, his boot splashing in a pool of water.
He began raising the shotgun.
I didn't wait for him to turn on the light.
I squeezed the trigger twice.
The sharp, concussive crack of the Glock echoed off the brick wall.
The recoil pushed hard against my wrists, but the barrel stayed level.
Both rounds struck the mercenary in the upper chest plate.
The force knocked him off balance, sending him staggering backward into an iron tool cart with a deafening crash.
He didn't get up.
A silence as heavy as a burial vault fell over Warehouse Three.
The ocean wind wailed through the broken window panes, bringing the cold, salty tang of harbor mist into the room.
"Rachel?" Luca's voice called out from the darkness, low, calm, and terrifyingly close.
"I'm here," I answered, my voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring through my blood.
"I'm clear."
A click sounded, and the beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight cut through the fog, sweeping over the floor.
Six Montreal mercenaries lay dead across the concrete.
Not a single one remained standing.
Thomas Vance was standing near the doorway, reloading a fresh magazine into his sidearm, completely uninjured.
Luca walked toward me through the smoke and mist, stepping over the fallen gunman near the tool cart.
He lowered his flashlight beam to my hands, seeing the smoking barrel of the little Glock resting steadily on my knee.
He looked at the fallen mercenary, then up into my eyes.
"Center mass," Luca observed softly.
"Two inches above the breastbone," I said, lowering the weapon and engaging the manual safety.
"My father taught me to aim for the zipper."
Luca extended his hand, wrapping his fingers around mine and pulling me smoothly to my feet before picking up my dropped crutch from the floorboards.
He handed me the crutch, his eyes lingering on my face with an expression I had never seen him direct at anyone in three years: total, unreserved respect.
"You held the line, Rachel," Luca said quietly.
"We're not finished yet, Mr. Moretti," I said, pointing toward the iron pillar where Patrick was still shivering in his chains.
We walked back toward the center of the warehouse.
Patrick looked up at Luca through his one open eye, his entire body trembling with the realization that his rescue team had just been annihilated in less than four minutes.
"Luca... please..." Patrick begged, tears carving pale tracks through the blood and grime on his face.
"I can give you the names in Montreal. I can testify against their council in New York."
"I have the offshore banking keys stored in a private safety vault in Zurich."
"I gave you twelve years of my life!"
Luca stood before him, the tactical flashlight illuminating the ruin of Patrick's face.
"You didn't give me twelve years of your life, Patrick," Luca said, his voice dropping into that chilling, absolute finality.
"You stole twelve years of my family's trust."
"You threatened an innocent girl whose family worked honorably while you took bribes from Canadian scavengers."
Luca reached into his pocket, pulled out the heavy brass master key ring that I had brought to the docks, and dropped it onto the concrete floor at Patrick's feet.
The keys rattled against the stone with a sound like iron chains dropping into an open grave.
"Rachel manages the keys now, Patrick."
"And the only door you're ever going to see open again is the hatch on the bottom of a harbor barge."
Luca turned to Thomas.
"Clean the warehouse. Load the server racks onto our transports."
"We're going home."
As Thomas's men moved forward with bolt cutters and zip-ties, Luca took my arm, supporting my weight as we walked out of the smoke-filled warehouse into the cold night air.
May you like
Behind us, the fog was beginning to lift, revealing the dark silhouette of the city skyline across the water.
The old Moretti empire had been cracked wide open by a maid who walked on her toes.
