Chapter 9 - The Bloodline Broken
The rain lashed against the windshield as the convoy rolled north along the deserted shoreline highway.
They were four hundred miles from Chicago, traveling through the dense boreal forests flanking Lake Superior.
Samuel Ward drove the lead tactical truck with Marcus beside him, monitoring encrypted radio frequencies.
Adrian sat in the rear of the second vehicle beside Ethan, staring at the GPS coordinates glowing on his tablet.
Ethan checked the action on a twelve-gauge shotgun Marcus had handed him before they left the safehouse.
"I’m an independent tow operator, Mr. Moretti," Ethan murmured, his voice gritty with lack of sleep.
"I never held a military weapon until yesterday."
"You don't have to board that island, Ethan," Adrian said without looking up from his display.
"You gave me the watch."
"You fulfilled the promise you made to my brother in that muddy ditch."
Ethan shook his head, running a thumb over the polished walnut stock of the shotgun.
"Your father sent two men to kick down my basement door while my daughter was sleeping upstairs."
"He made me live in terror for eight years while he hid in luxury on a private lake."
"I’m seeing this finished."
Up ahead, the dense pines broke to reveal the black, freezing expanse of Lake Superior.
The water looked like polished obsidian under the overcast grey morning sky.
Sitting two miles off the mainland, shrouded in rolling fog banks, lay Blackwood Island.
The property was registered to an offshore timber collective, completely off-grid and accessible only by private vessel or helicopter.
On the highest granite bluff of the island stood a concrete-and-timber compound resembling a fortress.
Ward pulled the truck into an abandoned fishing dock concealed behind a stand of weeping spruce trees.
Tied to the rotting pylons was a high-speed aluminum tactical launch painted matte black.
"This is Arthur’s private supply vessel," Ward said, cutting the truck's engine.
"The perimeter sensors on the island use military thermal optics."
"If we approach the primary dock, the remote automated turrets will tear the hull apart before we cut the throttle."
"Then how do we get ashore?" Marcus asked, checking his spare magazines.
"There is a drainage sea cave beneath the western cliffs where the estate's hydroelectric generators discharge," Ward said.
"Luca and I mapped the layout twelve years ago when Arthur first broke ground on the compound."
Adrian stepped onto the wet dock, the cold lake wind cutting through his heavy clothes.
"How many security contractors does Arthur keep on the island?"
"Sixteen," Ward replied grimly.
"All former private military operators drawn from international private security firms."
"They don't know Arthur Moretti; they take orders from 'Mr. Sterling' and get paid through numbered accounts in Dubai."
"They won't hesitate to put bullets through your heads."
Adrian loaded a fresh magazine into his sidearm, the slide snapping forward with a crisp metallic report.
"Let's move."
The launch cut through the frigid water with a muffled hum from its baffled exhaust pipes.
Fog clung to the surface of the lake, hiding their approach until the jagged rock wall of Blackwood Island loomed overhead.
The launch glided into the narrow sea cave, its hull scraping against the submerged granite shelves.
Inside, the roar of the hydroelectric turbines echoed like thunder off the mossy stone ceiling.
Marcus secured the boat line to an iron maintenance rung drilled into the rock face.
One by one, the four men climbed the slippery metal ladder leading upward into the facility’s utility tunnels.
Ward led the way, using an electronic bypass key to override the secondary magnetic bulkhead doors.
As the last door hissed open, they stepped into a subterranean corridor lined with polished concrete and exposed copper pipes.
The air was warm, smelling of ozone, expensive cedar wood, and roasted coffee beans.
Suddenly, a heavy steel door at the end of the hall swung open with a sharp clang.
Two private security guards in slate-grey tactical uniforms stepped into the corridor carrying short-barreled submachine guns.
"Identify!" the lead guard barked, raising his weapon toward Ward.
Marcus did not hesitate; he dropped to one knee and fired two suppressed rounds through the lead guard's chest.
The second contractor lunged for the wall-mounted alarm toggle, but Ethan fired his shotgun from the hip.
The blast shattered the alarm panel and hurled the contractor backward into the steel doorframe.
The deafening roar of the shotgun echoed through the concrete tunnels like a cannon blast.
The red emergency lights along the ceiling immediately began to flash in rhythmic, silent pulses.
"The compound is on full breach alert!" Marcus yelled, grabbing fresh shells from his pocket.
"Move to the central elevator!" Ward commanded, running down the hall.
They sprinted past the fallen guards, stepping through the shattered doorway into the executive living quarters.
The interior was lavishly furnished with floor-to-ceiling panoramic glass, imported Persian carpets, and modern oil paintings.
Standing by the massive stone fireplace, wrapped in an embroidered velvet smoking jacket, stood Arthur Moretti.
He was sipping black coffee from a porcelain cup, his grey hair neatly brushed, looking untouched by time.
Across from him, tied to a heavy oak armchair with zip-ties, was Victor Moretti, bruised and bleeding from his mouth.
Arthur did not flinch at the sight of the bloodied weapons entering his sanctuary.
He set his coffee cup down on the marble mantlepiece with infuriating composure.
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"You were always so dramatic, Adrian," Arthur said, his voice as smooth and commanding as it had been eight years ago.
"You brought my disgraced security chief and an illiterate tow truck driver into my private home."
