Chapter 8 - The Treason of Baron De Winter
The ancient Citadel of Saint-Florent loomed over the black waters of the gulf like a massive stone leviathan carved from the limestone cliffs. High atop the ramparts, halogen floodlights swept the crashing waves, their beams illuminating the razor-sharp reefs lining the approach.
Inside the fortress’s subterranean sea gate—a vaulted stone slipway dating back to the Genoese occupation—our carbon-fiber interceptor glided into the shadows beneath the limestone archway, its engines cut to a silent, electric crawl.
Matteo fired a pneumatic grappling line toward the high iron catwalk above the slipway. The magnetic hook engaged with a muffled *thunk*.
“Catwalk clear,” Matteo whispered through his throat mic. “Two sentries neutralized with tranquilizer darts. Moving to the lower magazine.”
Dominic, Tonio, and I scaled the boarding ladder, stepping onto the slick stone floor of the subterranean corridor. The air was frigid, smelling of sulfur, damp salt, and old cordite.
Dominic carried the leather case containing his mother’s ledgers in his left hand, his suppressed Beretta held ready in his right. I walked directly behind him, the Glock steady in my grip, while Tonio guarded our rear with his heavy walking stick.
We ascended a flight of spiral stone stairs cut into the bedrock, arriving outside the heavy iron-studded oak door of the lower ammunition magazine.
Through the heavy oak planks, the muffled sound of Camille De Winter’s hysterical voice echoed down the corridor:
*“Where is the helicopter, Father?! You told me the Sicilian cartel would have an extraction bird on the helipad by four o’clock!”*
Then came the gravelly, enraged voice of Baron Henri De Winter:
*“Shut up, Camille! The Sicilian cartel cut off our communications twenty minutes ago! Dominic leaked Isabella’s ledgers to the High Council! Every harbor master in the Mediterranean has locked our vessels in port! If Moreau doesn't hand over the original physical documents tonight, we are ruined!”*
Then, a weak, raspy cough echoed through the wood—a sound that made my entire soul clench in agony.
*“Clara...”* I breathed.
Dominic placed his hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring, iron squeeze. He raised his left hand, signaling three fingers... two... one.
*BOOM!*
Matteo blew the door’s heavy iron hinges with a directional breaching charge.
The massive oak door crashed inward with a deafening roar of splintering wood and dust.
Dominic swept into the room like an avenging demon, his weapon leveled, his towering silhouette framed against the smoke.
“HENRI!” Dominic’s voice boomed through the vaulted magazine like a thunderclap.
Henri De Winter spun around, his silver hair wild, drawing a chrome revolver from his coat. Beside him, Camille screamed, scrambling backward behind a stack of wooden crates.
And sitting in the center of the room, tied to an iron chair, wrapped in a soiled blanket, was my fourteen-year-old sister Clara.
Beside her chair stood the mercenary orderly, his hand hovering over the plunger of the thallium syringe inserted into her IV port.
“DON'T MOVE, MOREAU!” Henri shrieked, aiming his revolver wildly toward Dominic. “One twitch of your finger, and the orderly pushes the toxin! Toss the ledgers onto the floor!”
Dominic didn’t lower his weapon. His obsidian eyes fixed upon Henri with the terrifying, absolute certainty of an apex predator.
“You’re out of time, Henri,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a deadly, smooth whisper that froze the room.
“Drop the bag!” Henri screamed, sweat pouring down his pale face. “Drop it or the girl dies!”
Before Dominic could move, a sudden, sharp whistling sound tore through the air from the doorway behind us.
Seventy-nine-year-old Tonio Rossi stepped forward, lunged with the speed of an ancient warrior, and hurled his heavy wooden walking stick with terrifying, pinpoint accuracy.
The weighted brass tip of the walking stick struck the mercenary orderly squarely in the temple with a sickening crack.
The orderly collapsed instantly, his fingers slipping harmlessly from the syringe, crashing unconscious onto the stone floor.
Henri gasped in horror, swinging his revolver toward Tonio.
*BANG!*
A shot echoed through the stone magazine.
It didn’t come from Dominic.
It came from me.
I had stepped out from behind Dominic’s shoulder, raised my Glock with both hands, and squeezed the trigger.
The 9mm hollow-point round struck Henri De Winter squarely in his right shoulder, shattering the collarbone, sending his chrome revolver clattering across the stone floor into the shadows.
Henri collapsed onto his knees with a choked roar of agony, clutching his bleeding arm, his aristocratic arrogance disintegrating into pathetic, sniveling terror.
“CLARA!” I screamed, dropping my weapon, sprinting across the magazine, throwing myself onto my knees before my sister’s chair.
With shaking fingers, I pulled the IV line from her arm, throwing the deadly syringe into the corner, wrapping my arms tightly around her frail, shivering body.
Clara opened her pale hazel eyes, weeping softly into my neck as she buried her face against my shoulder.
“Sylvie... Sylvie, you came...” she sobbed.
“I’m here, baby,” I wept, kissing her forehead over and over, tears of boundless relief pouring down my cheeks. “I’m here. Nobody can ever hurt you again.”
In the corner of the room, Camille scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees, clawing desperately toward the emergency sea exit.
Before her fingers could reach the latch, Dominic Moreau’s heavy combat boot came down squarely upon her hand, pinning her fingers against the stone floor with agonizing pressure.
Camille shrieked, looking up into the dark, terrifying face of the man she had tried to deceive.
“Dominic... please!” she wept hysterically. “I was forced into this! My father made me do it! I loved you, Dominic!”
Dominic looked down at her with a disgust so absolute, so pure, that it chilled the stone walls.
“You never loved anyone, Camille,” Dominic whispered softly. “You poisoned my mother’s trees, you tried to murder an innocent sick child, and you ordered my uncle thrown into the sea rocks.”
He leaned down, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp blade.
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“Now, you will spend the rest of your miserable life in a French federal penitentiary, eating stale bread and remembering that you were brought down by a basket of blood oranges and a girl who refused to drop her apron.”
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