Chapter 4 - The Abattoir in the Dark
The first man down the stairs was Vance.
He was a thick-necked, heavily scarred mercenary who had served as Lorenzo's muscle for a decade. He carried a suppressed MP5 submachine gun, its tactical light slicing through the thick coal dust hanging in the air. Behind him, five men in heavy tactical gear moved in a tight, disciplined stack.
"Clear the floor!" Vance barked into his shoulder mic. "Lorenzo wants the old man and the girl dead first! Then we take Nicholas down!"
He stepped off the final concrete step into the dark cellar.
He didn't see me hanging from the overhead iron water pipe directly above the stairwell landing.
I dropped down onto his shoulders like three hundred pounds of falling iron.
My combat knife, drawn silently from my boot, drove straight down through the collar of his tactical vest, severing his carotid artery before he could let out a breath. I grabbed his falling submachine gun with my left hand, spun his falling body around as a human shield, and squeezed the trigger.
The suppressed MP5 chattered violently in the enclosed space.
Ptht-ptht-ptht-ptht-ptht!
The three mercenaries directly behind Vance on the stairs were shredded by a wall of nine-millimeter rounds, their bodies tumbling backward down the flight of stairs in a cascade of blood and shattered armor.
"AMBUSH!" the fifth man screamed from the top landing, firing wild bursts down into the gloom.
I tossed Vance's lifeless body aside, ducked behind a massive concrete pillar, and dropped the empty magazine from the submachine gun, slapping a fresh clip into the chamber from Vance's belt.
"Vance is down!" the gunman shouted to his partner above. "He's fast! He's—"
I leaned around the pillar and placed a single round precisely through the center of his forehead. He collapsed forward, his helmet bouncing against the concrete steps.
The sixth man threw a tear gas canister down the stairs.
It hit the floor, hissing white, acrid smoke that filled the narrow corridor in seconds.
I didn't retreat. I pulled my coat collar over my nose and mouth, dropped to my knees, and crawled forward beneath the rising cloud of gas. Through the white haze, I saw the boots of the final mercenary stepping cautiously down the stairs, his night-vision goggles glowing green.
I lunged upward, grabbing his ankle, pulling his leg out from beneath him. He crashed hard onto his back on the concrete steps. Before he could raise his sidearm, I drove my boot heel directly into his neck, crushing his windpipe.
Silence returned to the basement.
The only sounds were the hissing of the tear gas canister, the drip of water from the copper pipes, and the low, terrified panting of Beatrice behind the boiler.
I stood up among the six fallen men, my coat covered in dust and crimson blood. I walked over to Vance's body, reached into his tactical vest, and pulled out his secure satellite phone.
The screen was still active. A group text chat was open between Vance, Lorenzo, and four senior capos from the Vale Syndicate.
Lorenzo’s last message read: Confirm the kill. We hold the Commission meeting at the Lake Shore estate at 2:00 AM.
I picked up the phone, pressed the audio message button, and spoke in a clear, unhurried voice that carried the absolute coldness of a grave being dug in the snow.
"Keep my chair warm, Lorenzo," I said into the microphone. "I'm coming home."
I hit send.
I walked back through the clearing smoke toward the iron boiler. Beatrice was holding Julian in her arms, shielding his head with her thin navy coat. They were both shaking violently, looking at me with eyes wide with horror and awe.
I dropped to one knee before them, setting the captured submachine gun aside.
"Julian," I said softly, reaching out to touch my brother's thin shoulder. "Can you walk?"
"I... I think so," Julian gasped, looking at the fallen men near the stairs. "Nicholas... what have you become?"
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I looked down at my hands—hands that had spent twelve years killing the wrong men for a traitor's lie.
"I became what I needed to be to keep you alive, brother," I said quietly, lifting him into my arms as if he weighed no more than a child. "Now come. It's time to take back our father's house."
