Chapter 8 - THE SCENT OF GUNPOWDER IN QUEENS
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I pressed my back against the cold mahogany base of the circulation desk, holding my breath until my lungs burned. The only sound in the cavernous library was the distant hiss of rain against the high arched windows and the faint, rhythmic brush of tactical boots against the floorboards.
The white beam of light flickered across the gold-foil titles of the books ten feet above my head.
*Admiralty Law. Maritime Liens. International Conventions on the Carriage of Goods by Sea.*
"He’s not in the north corridor," a harsh whisper called out from somewhere near the third row. It was a gruff, heavy voice—unmistakably the burly man who had sat at the bar with the untouched gin. "Check the mezzanine stairs. If he doubled back, he’s trapped against the service elevator."
"He didn't double back," the younger man replied—the substitute bartender. His flashlight beam danced lower, sweeping across the parquet floor, illuminating small drops of water.
My heart nearly stopped.
My sneakers had still been damp from the rain outside. I had left faint, evaporating moisture rings along the main walkway leading straight toward the circulation desk.
The footsteps slowed, turning deliberately in my direction.
*Step. Step. Step.*
I curled my knees to my chest, tucking my canvas bag behind my hips. On the bottom shelf of the circulation desk, half-hidden beneath an outdated stack of legal registers, lay a heavy brass desk lamp with an ornate marble base. It had been disconnected decades ago, its frayed cord coiled neatly around its stem.
I reached out with trembling fingers, my fingernails scraping quietly against the cold marble base. I closed my hand around the brass neck.
*Five feet away.*
The flashlight beam spilled over the top of the desk, casting long, monstrous shadows across the floorboards.
*Three feet away.*
The barrel of a suppressed submachine gun edged past the carved wooden corner of the desk, its matte-black muzzle pointing down.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the far western wall of the library. A row of heavy leather-bound books tumbled off the third tier of shelves, slapping down onto the hardwood with the explosive crack of gunshots.
The shooter spun around instantly, his weapon snapping toward the noise. "Over there! Near the bay window!"
He took two running strides away from my hiding spot.
From the ceiling above him, Dominic dropped like an avenging shadow.
He landed silently behind the burly shooter, his left arm wrapping around the man’s throat in a lethal carotid restraint while his right hand seized the barrel of the carbine, wrenching it upward. The weapon discharged two suppressed rounds with dull, muffled coughs—*thwip, thwip*—sending plaster raining down from the high ceiling.
The heavy man gasped, thrashing violently against Dominic's grip, trying to reach a combat knife sheathed at his hip. But Dominic’s movement was mercilessly efficient. He shifted his hip, dropped his center of gravity, and drove the man’s temple into the edge of a solid oak library table. The impact sounded like a bowling ball striking concrete. The heavy gunman went limp, collapsing onto the floor in an unceremonious heap.
"Freeze!" a voice shrieked from the center aisle.
The substitute bartender stood twenty feet away, his weapon leveled directly at Dominic’s chest. The tactical flashlight mounted on his gun barrel threw Dominic’s scarred jawline and cold, unblinking eyes into harsh relief.
"Step away from him, Falcone," the bartender snarled, his finger trembling against the trigger. "Hands where I can see them, or I ventilate your chest right here."
Dominic didn't raise his hands. He stood tall, the blood from the fallen man smearing the sleeve of his white shirt, his expression as calm as stone.
"You were always sloppy, Kevin," Dominic said, his voice flat and mocking. "Mateo recruited you from that dockside crew in Newark because he thought you were ambitious. He didn't realize you were just incompetent. You missed me at Bellanova. You missed me in the penthouse. And now you're standing in my father's library, completely out of your depth."
"Shut up!" Kevin screamed, taking a half-step forward. "I have the drop on you! One pull, and you're history! The whole city belongs to Rossi by morning!"
He had completely forgotten about me.
I didn't think about tort law, civil procedure, or ethical codes. I thought about the cold rain on 68th Street, the men outside my apartment who wanted to put a bullet in the back of my head, and the fact that if this man pulled that trigger, Dominic would die and I would be next.
Rising silently from behind the circulation desk, I gripped the heavy brass lamp with both hands, stepped forward, and swung it with every ounce of strength in my body.
The solid marble base caught Kevin squarely across the side of his helmeted jaw.
*Crack.*
The impact vibrated up my forearms, tearing the skin on my palms. Kevin let out a choked cry, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the floorboards as he stumbled sideways, his flashlight beam spinning wildly through the darkness.
Before he could regain his footing, Dominic moved with blurring speed. His boot lashed out, snapping the carbine from Kevin's hands and sending it sliding across the polished floor. In the next breath, Dominic drove his palm into the center of Kevin's chest, pinning him against the wall of books, his right hand closing like an iron vise around the younger man's throat.
The heavy shelves shuddered, volumes of maritime statutes raining down around them.
Dominic drew his pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel directly between Kevin's eyes.
"Give me one reason," Dominic whispered, his gray eyes burning with lethal intent, "why I shouldn't paint these law books with your brains right now."
Kevin choked, his eyes bulging in terror as his feet dangled two inches above the floor. "Wait... wait! Don't shoot! I was just... I was just following orders!"
I stepped forward, dropping the bloodied brass lamp onto the floor with a dull thud. My breath came in ragged, burning gasps, but my voice cut through the library with sharp authority.
"Don't kill him, Dominic!"
Dominic didn't look at me. His thumb rested on the hammer of the gun. "He tried to murder you, Emma. He came here to butcher us both in our sleep."
"And if you shoot him, he's just a dead body that gets you indicted for homicide!" I shouted, stepping between Dominic and the pinned gunman. "Look at his chest pocket. His phone is recording. He has an open line to his dispatch. Search him, Dominic. Take his phone. That is the evidence we need."
Dominic's eyes flicked to mine for a second. For the second time that night, the iron discipline of the mafia boss bowed to the cold logic of the law student.
Slowly, Dominic lowered the gun, driving the butt of the weapon into Kevin’s solar plexus. The bartender dropped to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his stomach as Dominic ripped the encrypted smartphone and a leather wallet from his tactical vest.
Dominic unlocked the screen with the unconscious man's thumb, glancing at the open call log.
"Queens Boulevard," Dominic read, a grim smile curling his lips. "An old warehouse near Sunnyside Yard. That’s where Rossi set up his command center."
He looked at me, his gaze lingering on the bruised skin of my hands and the fierce, unyielding fire in my eyes.
"You swing a brass lamp remarkably well for a future public defender, Miss Parker."
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"I took two years of varsity softball in college," I retorted, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. "Now let's get out of here before the police—or more of his friends—show up."
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