Chapter 8 - The Shadow In The Penthouse And The Guard Who Swore Loyalty
The shadow filled the doorway.
A man dressed in black tactical fatigues, a combat helmet with night-vision optics pushed up over his forehead, and a silenced submachine gun slung across his chest.
He stepped through the threshold, sweeping the room.
He spotted me backed against the rear steel wall.
A cruel, gloating grin spread across his scarred face.
“Well, well,” he chuckled, lowering his weapon toward my chest. “The two-million-dollar prize. Little maid thought she could hide under the dirt.”
“Take one more step,” I warned, raising the combat knife.
My hands trembled, but my voice remained steady.
“What are you going to do with that, sweetheart? Peel an apple?”
He lunged forward to grab my arm.
I didn't swing the knife wildly.
I ducked low, remembering what my father had taught me years ago before he took bullets for Don Moretti: *When a bigger man grabs your upper body, cut the tendon behind his knee.*
I drove the blade into the soft back of his right knee.
The man howled in shock and agony as the blade bit deep.
He stumbled sideways, his grip missing my collar.
He spun around in blind fury, raising his fist to smash my skull.
A single gunshot cracked like thunder inside the enclosed bunker.
The man’s head snapped back.
He collapsed onto the concrete floor like a cut timber.
Standing in the doorway was Gianni.
Smoke curled from the barrel of his silver .45 pistol.
His tactical vest was spattered with drywall dust and dark stains.
“Miss Claire!” Gianni rushed into the room, kicking the fallen mercenary’s rifle across the floor. “Are you injured?”
“I’m... I’m fine,” I gasped, leaning against the wall, dropping the bloody knife. My knuckles were white. “Gianni, how did they get down here?”
“Henderson had an auxiliary override frequency hidden in his watch,” Gianni growled. “The bastards tried to flank the rear perimeter while Ramos engaged the boss at the gate. But Luca anticipated it. He sent me to secure you.”
“Where is Luca?” I asked desperately. “Is he alive? Is he hurt?”
“He’s alive,” Gianni said, stepping out into the subterranean corridor and checking the corners. “He took out the three SUVs at the front gate. But Ramos fled toward the docks in the fourth vehicle. Luca took four men in the armored sedan. He’s hunting Ramos down right now.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because my orders from the Don were absolute,” Gianni said firmly, looking me dead in the eye. “He said: ‘If Claire takes a single scratch, don’t bother coming back alive.’ My life is pledged to your safety, Miss Claire. We need to move you to the upper estate before more backup arrives.”
Gianni helped me up.
His hand was steady and respectful.
We climbed the concrete emergency stairs leading up into the mansion’s ground floor.
The estate was eerily quiet now.
The grand foyer was littered with spent brass casings and shattered glass from the side transoms.
Two Moretti guards were sweeping the hall, their rifles at the low ready.
They nodded to Gianni as we passed.
Outside, the first faint light of dawn was beginning to paint the eastern sky in shades of bruised violet and pale orange.
The heavy rain that had fallen all night had slowed to a light, chilly mist over the estate grounds.
Gianni led me toward the library where Dr. Evans was waiting with a clean change of clothes.
“Wait here,” Gianni said, stationing himself right outside the open double doors. “Drink the warm tea. The Boss will be back within the hour.”
I walked over to the bay windows looking out over the private rose garden.
The morning mist hung low over the damp grass.
The scent of wet earth and gunpowder mingled in the air.
I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering inside the oversized silk shirt.
I thought it was over.
I thought the assault had failed.
I thought the bunker had been the final trap.
I was wrong.
A shadow separated itself from the dense foliage of the weeping willow near the iron garden gate.
A figure in a gray hooded coat.
Not a mercenary.
A woman.
She moved with frantic, jerky steps, her hair tangled, her hands clutching a dark object wrapped in a silk shawl.
Vanessa Bellini.
She had escaped the sub-basement during the firefight when the auxiliary power grid went down.
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And she was walking straight toward the low French doors of the rose garden terrace.
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