Chapter 6 - Footsteps in the Salt Air
"RUN!" Richard roared.
He grabbed my wrist, pulling me across the shattered parquet floor toward the
heavy kitchen double doors.
We hit the service exit just as the dining room erupted.
A deafening shockwave lifted us off our feet.
Fire, splintered mahogany, and plaster blasted down the hallway.
The heavy fire doors slammed shut behind us, absorbing the brunt of the
fireball.
We tumbled down the iron stairs into the underground service garage.
Smoke poured through the ventilation vents.
My ears were screaming with white noise.
My left hand was soaked in blood, the gauze ripped away, skin screaming in raw
agony.
Richard hauled me up.
His tuxedo was scorched black.
A deep gash bled freely over his left eyebrow.
"Can you walk, Naomi?"
"I can walk," I gasped, wiping soot from my mouth.
In the corner of the underground garage sat an unmarked, matte-black armored
SUV.
Richard hit the remote sensor.
The heavy doors unlocked with a metallic click.
"Get in. Keep your head below the window line."
He fired up the twelve-cylinder engine.
It roared with a guttural, predator growl.
Richard slammed the transmission into reverse, smashing through the locked
security gate of the garage, tires smoking against the concrete.
We shot out onto the coastal highway.
Rain had begun to fall.
Heavy, freezing Atlantic sheets slammed against the reinforced windshield.
Long Island was a blur of dark trees and flashing emergency lights in the
distance.
Richard drove like a demon.
One hundred and ten miles per hour through the winding curves.
"Pier 42 is twenty minutes south," Richard said, his knuckles white on the
steering wheel.
"Salvatore Moretti has three cargo freighters docked there. If they get my
mother onto international waters, she’s gone."
"What about Celeste?" I asked, clutching the dashboard.
Richard’s gaze went colder than the sea outside.
"Celeste is meeting Salvatore at the warehouse to sign the papers. She wants to
watch the empire change hands."
He glanced at my bleeding hand.
"Reach into the glovebox. There's a field kit."
I opened it.
Antiseptic, military tourniquets, and a heavy roll of medical tape.
I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper, pouring the stinging alcohol
straight over my raw palm.
I wrapped the tape tight.
I didn't complain.
Not when Teresa Castellano was dying in a dark warehouse.
The rain hammered harder.
Ahead of us, the skyline of Brooklyn faded into the dark industrial sprawl of
the docks.
Rusted cranes stood like skeletal giants against the black sky.
Richard turned off the SUV's headlights half a mile before the entrance.
We coasted in under the cover of the roaring surf.
The smell of rotting salt, diesel oil, and dead fish filled the night air.
Warehouse Four was illuminated by floodlights.
Four black sedans were parked outside.
And beside them sat the white medical van that had stolen Richard’s mother.
Richard cut the engine.
He reached into the back seat and pulled out an automatic assault rifle, tossing
two spare clips onto my lap.
"Naomi. This isn't your war."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"She was kind to me, Richard. When every other rich person in that house treated
me like dirt, she asked about Caleb’s asthma. She gave me silver coins for his
birthday."
I picked up the .357 revolver.
"I'm seeing this through."
May you like
A slow, grim smile touched Richard’s lips.
"Then let's take back my family."
