Chapter 2 - Ambush in the Steam
The heavy reinforced iron doors of the underground laundry facility were hanging slightly ajar, steam billowing out into the damp subterranean corridor.
Vincent kicked the door open with brutal force, leading the tactical sweep himself despite Marcus's desperate attempts to shield him.
The hot, humid air inside smelled of bleach, damp linen, and the unmistakable, sharp stench of fresh gunpowder.
Two Romano guards lay motionless on the wet tiled floor near the industrial washing drums, their communications headsets severed and their sidearms missing.
From behind a row of giant commercial steam presses, a woman's muffled shriek cut through the rhythmic hiss of escaping vapor.
"Maria!" Vincent shouted, raising his weapon with pinpoint accuracy as he rounded the corner.
Peter Sloan stood beside a massive steam boiler, his scarred face twisted into a grotesque, mocking sneer.
His right hand had Maria Alvarez pinned against the scorching metal frame by her throat, while his left wrist, marked by the coiled serpent and dagger tattoo, held a silenced automatic pistol pressed directly against her temple.
Maria was weeping silently, her hands desperately clawing at Sloan's forearm, her housekeeping uniform torn at the shoulder.
"Drop the iron, Romano!" Sloan barked, his raspy voice echoing through the steam. "One twitch from your security dog, and the cleaning lady paints this back wall!"
Marcus and four operatives instantly raised their rifles, lasers painting red dots across Sloan’s chest.
"Let her go, Sloan," Vincent said, stepping forward until he was less than fifteen feet from the barrel of the hitman's gun. "You survived an explosion eighteen months ago just to die in a basement over a maid?"
Sloan laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "This maid's brat opened her mouth. Salvatore doesn't leave loose threads. But you walking down here yourself? That's a Christmas bonus."
"Where is Sophie?" Vincent asked, his voice low, steady, and devoid of fear.
"Tied up in the trunk of a sedan parked on the ramp, waiting for the river," Sloan smirked. "Drop your gun, Vincent, or the mother dies right now."
Vincent stared into Sloan's cold, psychotic eyes.
He lowered his weapon by two inches, appearing to yield to the hitman's demand.
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"You should have checked who was behind you, Peter," Vincent whispered softly.
Before Sloan could process the words, a small, dark shadow darted from the top of an industrial supply rack behind the boiler.
