Chapter 5 - The Siege of Westchester
The reinforced steel doors of the subterranean archives shuddered under the heavy impact of a tactical ram.
"They're blowing the hinges!" I shouted over the blaring alarm, grabbing a heavy iron wrench from the maintenance shelf beside the desk.
"Stay behind me!" Vincent ordered, positioning himself sideways near the console with his pistol raised.
BOOM.
The steel door burst inward, tearing off its reinforced bolts and crashing onto the tile floor. Three men in full tactical gear, wearing black ski masks and carrying submachine guns, swarmed through the smoke-filled entryway.
The first man raised his weapon toward Vincent.
I didn't wait for him to pull the trigger. I hurled the heavy iron wrench with every ounce of force I possessed, catching the gunman squarely in the throat. He gagged, dropping his weapon and stumbling backward into his partner.
Vincent fired twice—bang, bang—neutralizing the second assailant with clinical precision.
The third man managed to bring his submachine gun around, aiming straight at Vincent’s chest.
I dove across the desk, tackling the gunman’s knees just as he fired. A burst of bullets chewed into the ceiling panels above us, raining down drywall dust. I hooked my leg around his ankle, twisting violently until his knee joint popped, and slammed his head against the concrete floor until he went limp.
The smoke cleared. Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the servers and the groans of the wounded men.
Vincent lowered his gun, exhaling a long, steady breath. He looked down at me, kneeling amidst the wreckage of the desk, bruised, bleeding from a scratch on my forearm, but breathing hard and completely unharmed.
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," Vincent said, offering me his hand.
I took his hand, letting him pull me up. But before I could let go, the heavy secure phone on the master console began to ring—a shrill, piercing sound that cut through the emergency alarms.
Vincent walked over, picked up the receiver, and pressed speakerphone.
"Vince," a gravelly, aged voice echoed through the room. Salvatore Kelletti. "I see your new pet knows how to fight. Too bad she’s about to read her own obituary."
"It's over, Salvatore," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "I have the digital ledgers from Project Ironclad. I have the wire transfers. I know you killed Liam Gallagher."
"Liam Gallagher was a pest," Salvatore spat over the line. "And you, boy, are a disappointment. You think you run Kelletti Maritime? Without my men, without my votes on the board, you're nothing. And by sunrise, the federal indictment for your father's illegal shell companies—packaged neatly with your name on it—will land on the U.S. Attorney's desk."
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"You're forgetting one thing, Uncle," Vincent replied, a cold, ruthless smile spreading across his face. "I don't play by your rules anymore."
Vincent slammed the receiver down onto the console, picked up a thumb drive containing the decrypted Project Ironclad files, and looked at me. "Get your coat, Cassidy. We're going to a board meeting."
