Chapter 10 - Fire On Chestnut Street
The sound of tactical boots above them was accompanied by the sharp, metallic click of safeties being disengaged on assault carbines.
Vincent did not rush.
He calmly took the micro-cassette tapes and the thumb drive, sliding them into his inner Kevlar pocket, while Matteo shoved Daniel’s ledger and the silver locket into his field coat.
“Leo,” Vincent commanded in a quiet, steady voice.
“Take the service tunnel that connects to the subway ventilation shaft.”
“Get these papers to Marco at the safe house.”
The old technician looked at the staircase where shadows were already moving along the upper railing.
“What about you and Matteo, boss?”
“We are going to make sure nobody follows you,” Vincent said, drawing his weapon and racking the slide.
Leo didn't argue.
He grabbed his tool roll and slipped through a low iron hatch behind the deposit boxes, disappearing into the subterranean maintenance tunnels that snaked beneath the city streets.
Vincent and Matteo moved to either side of the iron spiral staircase, their backs pressed against the cold brickwork.
Through the open stairwell, the beam of a high-powered tactical weapon light swept across the ceiling, illuminating floating specks of dust and plaster.
“Romano!” a voice called down from the upper floor—a voice that was young, harsh, and dripping with arrogant confidence.
“Drop the iron and come up with your hands behind your neck!”
“Mr. Silvio wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about your kneecaps!”
Vincent glanced at Matteo.
Matteo held up three fingers, then two, then one.
On zero, Matteo dropped to one knee, leaned around the iron framework of the stairs, and fired three rapid, suppressed rounds up through the open treads.
The heavy 9mm slugs punched through the decorative iron risers, finding their mark with sickening precision.
A scream of agony echoed through the marble hall above, followed by the heavy crash of an operative tumbling down the first flight of stairs, his rifle clattering across the metal grating.
“Suppressing fire!” a voice barked from above.
Instantly, the stairwell was engulfed in a deafening storm of automatic fire.
Dozens of 5.56mm rounds tore through the plaster, chewing the brickwork to dust and showering the brothers in white lime and sharp stone splinters.
Vincent did not cower.
He waited for the distinctive rhythm of a magazine change—the split-second pause when the bolt locks to the rear.
The moment the fire slackened, Vincent pivoted around the corner, his Sig Sauer raised in a two-handed combat stance.
He didn't fire blindly.
His eyes tracked the muzzle flashes through the smoke, breaking the trigger with smooth, mechanical discipline:
Two rounds center-mass into a shooter kneeling by the mezzanine railing.
One round through the throat of a man attempting to clear the landing.
The two operatives collapsed instantly, their bodies sliding down the marble steps into the shadows.
“Move!” Vincent snarled, grabbing the fallen operative’s dropped carbine by its tactical sling.
The brothers charged up the stairs, moving in synchronized, lethal harmony—a rhythm they had practiced as boys in the back alleys of South Philly, perfected now through eleven years of bloodshed.
They cleared the first floor with terrifying speed.
The grand banking hall was filled with smoke from tear gas canisters, the towering Corinthian pillars scarred by bullet holes, the polished teller counters shattered into jagged shards of green glass.
Outside the massive bronze front doors, three black SUVs were parked across the sidewalk, their headlights illuminating the entrance with blinding white light.
Six tactical shooters in unmarked gray uniforms were advancing up the exterior steps, their rifles raised to breach the glass.
Vincent didn't wait for them to reach the threshold.
He brought up the captured M4 carbine, toggled the selector switch to fully automatic, and leveled the barrel at the center SUV’s fuel cell through the plate-glass window.
He dumped the entire thirty-round magazine in a single, sustained, thundering burst.
The armor-piercing rounds shattered the front windows of the bank, punched through the SUV’s aluminum quarter panel, and detonated the high-pressure fuel reservoir.
BOOM.
A violent, orange fireball erupted on Chestnut Street, lifting the three-ton vehicle six inches off the pavement before slamming it down onto its side.
The shockwave blew the remaining glass out of the bank facade, throwing the advancing shooters backward down the stone steps into the street.
Secondary explosions rippled through the vehicle’s electrical system, filling the rain-soaked avenue with black, oily smoke and burning rubber.
Vincent stepped through the shattered window frame onto the blood-slicked stone steps, the smoking carbine in his left hand, his pistol in his right.
Through the swirling flames and the falling rain, a single survivor from the strike team was crawling across the asphalt, trying to reach a dropped radio.
Vincent walked down the steps with slow, unhurried strides, his heavy boots crunching over shards of safety glass and brass shell casings.
He stopped over the crawling man, placing the heavy heel of his boot onto the operative’s broken hand.
The man cried out in agony, his face covered in soot and blood as he looked up into the terrifying, dead eyes of the syndicate don.
“Where is the child?” Vincent asked, his voice softer than the hiss of the burning tires.
“I don't... I don't know...” the man gasped, choking on smoke.
Vincent didn't raise his voice.
He simply pressed his boot down harder until the delicate bones of the man’s metacarpals began to grind against the asphalt.
“Where is Lily?” Vincent repeated.
“The estate!” the operative screamed, his resistance shattering completely under the excruciating pressure.
“Silvio’s estate in New Hope!”
“They’re holding her in the carriage house behind the stables!”
“Silvio... Silvio called the Senator!”
“They’re going to board a private jet at Trenton-Mercer Airport at dawn!”
“They’re taking the girl to a compound in Virginia to ensure the Bennett family line never talks!”
Matteo stepped up beside Vincent, his field coat splattered with carbon and rain, his eyes locked on the burning wreckage.
“Dawn is in three hours, Vincent,” Matteo said, checking his watch.
Vincent lifted his boot from the operative’s crushed hand.
Without a word of acknowledgment, he fired a single round through the radio lying on the pavement, destroying the device completely.
He turned his gaze toward the northern horizon, where the dark line of the Delaware River wound toward the wealthy, secluded estates of Bucks County.
“Three hours is more than enough time,” Vincent said, reaching for his satellite phone.
He brought the phone to his ear, his voice slicing through the crackle of the flames behind him.
“Marco.”
“Boss! The grid is coming back online—the city is swarming with sirens!” Marco shouted through the receiver.
“Tell the convoy to bypass the city limits,” Vincent commanded, his voice cold, steady, and filled with the terrifying weight of final judgment.
“Route every heavy vehicle and every rifle to Route 32 along the river.”
“We aren't going to negotiate.”
“We aren't going to exchange ledgers.”
May you like
Vincent looked at Matteo, the brother he had thought dead, now standing armed and ready at his side.
“Tell the men that tonight, the old regime burns.”
