Chapter 11 - THE TOWER CONFRONTATION
The wind on the roof of the Moretti mansion was howling at forty knots off Lake Michigan.
Freezing rain lashed against the slate tiles and the steel grating of the elevated helipad.
The twin turbine engines of the black Sikorsky helicopter were whining with a deafening, high-pitched scream.
The massive rotor blades were beginning to slice through the dense fog, whipping the freezing rain into blinding horizontal sheets.
Salvatore Rossi stood at the base of the helicopter stairs, clutching a leather briefcase packed with bearer bonds and false European passports.
His silver hair was plastered against his skull by the rain.
Beside him stood the man who had driven the black Cadillac Escalade to the curb of the St. Jude Hotel.
The fake driver was no longer wearing his chauffeur suit.
He wore black tactical fatigue pants and a heavy nylon parka.
In his hands was an Israeli-made submachine gun, his eyes scanning the rooftop access door sixty feet away.
"Hurry up!" Salvatore screamed into the pilot’s headset through the open cabin door.
"Get this bird off the ground now!"
"Turbine temps are still green, Mr. Rossi!" the pilot shouted back over the roar of the blades.
"We need two minutes to reach operating torque!"
Suddenly, a dark shape dropped from the stone parapet above the helipad walkway.
Sarah Cole landed on the steel grating without a sound, rolling through the impact and coming up on one knee.
Her weapon was leveled dead at the fake driver’s chest.
"Drop the weapon," Sarah’s voice sliced through the engine noise.
The fake driver didn't drop the gun.
He was a professional contract killer who had executed hits across three continents.
He spun on his heel and brought the submachine gun up to bear.
Sarah fired before his barrel cleared his hip.
A three-round burst struck the killer’s tactical vest, staggering him backward against the landing gear.
The man snarled, absorbing the blunt force through his ceramic plates, and lunged forward with a drawn combat knife.
Sarah didn't retreat.
She stepped inside his guard as the blade slashed through the freezing air.
She caught his wrist with an inverted lock, pivoting her entire body weight to drive his arm upward.
The bone in his forearm snapped with a sharp, wet crack that was audible even over the turbines.
The knife tumbled from his useless fingers and clattered through the steel grating into the dark courtyard forty feet below.
The killer attempted a desperate headbutt.
Sarah slipped the strike, drove her elbow into his jaw, and followed through with a devastating palm strike to his throat.
The man choked, stumbled backward over the safety railing, and plunged into the darkness of the estate gardens below.
Salvatore dropped his briefcase.
The leather latches burst open, scattering hundred-dollar bills across the wet helipad like worthless paper leaves in a gale.
He reached inside his cashmere coat with a trembling, arthritic hand, pulling a small gold-plated derringer from his vest pocket.
A heavy boot stepped onto the helipad grating behind him.
Vincent Moretti walked out of the driving sleet.
His long coat billowed in the rotor wash.
His face was completely devoid of mercy.
"Salvatore," Vincent said.
Salvatore spun around, pointing the tiny two-shot weapon at Vincent’s chest.
The gun was shaking so violently that the gold plating caught the strobing red anti-collision lights from the helicopter belly.
"Stay back, Vincent!" Salvatore screamed, his voice pathetic and cracked against the wind.
"I made you!"
"I put your father’s ring on your finger!"
"You were nothing but a hot-headed street enforcer until I taught you how to read a balance sheet!"
Vincent did not slow his pace.
He continued walking forward until the muzzle of Salvatore’s tiny gun was pressed directly against the center of his chest.
Directly over the ceramic trauma plate Sarah had made him wear.
"Shoot, godfather," Vincent said softly.
Salvatore stared into Vincent’s eyes.
There was no fear there.
There was no hesitation.
There was only the terrifying void of a predator who had outgrown his master.
"You... you ruined the family, Vincent," Salvatore wept, tears mixing with the freezing rain on his wrinkled cheeks.
"You wanted to turn us into corporate accountants!"
"You wanted to negotiate with zoning boards and pay federal taxes!"
"The Morettis don't pay taxes! We take what we want! We rule this city through blood!"
"You didn't protect the family, Salvatore," Vincent said, his voice cold and steady.
"You sold our men to the Castigliones for twenty-five pieces of silver in a Swiss bank."
"You were going to let my brother rot in a federal penitentiary."
"And you tried to use my own car to crush my bones into asphalt."
Salvatore’s finger tightened on the trigger of the derringer.
"I had to save what was left of our father’s work..."
"My father died twenty years ago," Vincent said.
"And tonight, the old family dies with you."
Vincent reached out with blinding speed, caught Salvatore’s wrist, and twisted the gun effortlessly from his grasp.
He tossed the weapon over the side of the helipad into the night.
Salvatore collapsed onto his knees on the wet steel grating, clutching Vincent’s coat hem with both hands.
"Vincent... please..." the old man begged, his pride dissolving into sheer, unadulterated cowardice.
"Spare me... send me to Italy... I will never return to America..."
"I have millions in Zurich... I will sign it all over to Anthony..."
"Please, Vincent... for your father’s memory..."
Vincent looked down at the pathetic creature at his feet.
He reached down, took the gold signet ring from Salvatore’s finger, and slid it into his own pocket.
Vincent turned his back on his godfather and looked toward Sarah Cole.
Sarah stood ten paces away, her weapon resting at her side, the rotor wash whipping her dark hair across her face.
"Captain Cole," Vincent said.
"Sir?"
"What is the protocol for an unauthenticated intruder on an executive helipad?"
Sarah looked at Salvatore Rossi kneeling on the grating.
"Standard protocol dictates the immediate removal of all unauthorized personnel from the perimeter."
Vincent walked toward the rooftop exit doors, not looking back once.
"Execute the protocol," Vincent said.
Sarah drew her sidearm from its holster.
Salvatore looked up at her, his eyes wide with horror as the red laser sight settled between his eyebrows.
A single suppressed shot cracked through the storm.
The old man fell forward onto his scattered money, motionless beneath the rain.
Sarah turned to the helicopter cabin, reached through the door, and pulled the pilot out by his collar.
"Shut the engines down," Sarah commanded.
The pilot frantically hit the fuel cutoff levers.
The high-pitched whine of the turbines began to decay into a dying moan.
May you like
The rotor blades slowed, casting long, lazy shadows across the quiet roof.
The storm was finally beginning to pass.
