Chapter 7 - Blood in the Water
Power vacuums in the underworld never close without a final spasm of violence.
While Marcus Dane had been put on a freighter bound for the southern hemisphere, his network of loyalists had not completely vanished. Deep in the industrial pockets of Gary, Indiana, three of Marcus’s lieutenants—men who had skimmed millions alongside him—realized that once Vincent fully consolidated his grip, their executions were only a matter of time.
They decided to strike first.
It happened on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Vincent and Nora were returning from downtown Chicago, where they had spent three hours watching Nora’s brother, Leo, take his first assisted steps in the state-of-the-art robotic harness at the rehabilitation hospital. The sight had filled Nora with an incandescent joy that Vincent had never seen before—a smile so radiant it made his chest ache with a fierce, possessive tenderness.
Their armored Mercedes was crossing through an industrial corridor near the Calumet River when a heavy flatbed truck violently backed out from an alleyway, blocking both lanes.
Before Vincent’s driver could shift into reverse, a black SUV slammed into their rear bumper, boxing them into the narrow asphalt passage.
“Ambush!” the driver yelled, reaching for his sidearm under his jacket.
A split second later, a bullet tore through the front windshield, catching the driver in the neck. Blood sprayed across the dashboard as the car lurched to a halt against the concrete divider.
Nora gasped, ducking low in the rear seat as gunfire erupted like hail against the armored glass.
“Stay down!” Vincent commanded.
He didn't panic. The cold, mechanical focus that had made him the most feared man in the Midwest took over instantly. He reached beneath the passenger seat, pulling out a modified short-barreled automatic shotgun.
“Vincent, there are four of them!” Nora shouted, peeking over the window line as masked men with automatic rifles stepped out from the SUV, advancing on their vehicle.
“Armored glass buys us forty seconds against 5.56 rounds,” Vincent said calmly, checking the chamber. His legs were still weak, but with his daily therapy and intense core conditioning, he could maneuver with lethal precision. “They’ll aim for the tires first, then use a breaching charge on the door hinges.”
Sure enough, a heavy thud landed on the rear door. A tactical magnetic charge.
“They’re blowing the hatch,” Vincent said. He looked Nora dead in the eye. “Nora, look at me.”
She turned to him, her eyes wide with adrenaline, but remarkably, she wasn't screaming. She wasn't crying. The same grit that had carried her through her brother’s tragedy kept her anchored.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“With my life,” she said without a tremor.
“When that door blows, you take the pistol from the glove compartment. You cover my blind spot on the left. Don't hesitate. Don't think about who they are. Pull the trigger until the slide locks.”
“Understood.” She popped open the console, retrieving the silver Colt .45 she had trained him with weeks ago in the basement.
The magnetic charge detonated with a concussive roar, tearing the rear right door off its hinges and filling the cabin with acrid white smoke.
A masked shooter lunged forward, barrel raised.
Vincent fired first.
The heavy twelve-gauge slug hit the man square in the chest plate, sending him flying backward onto the wet asphalt. Before the second gunman could adjust his aim, Vincent braced his back against the opposite door, leveraged his massive upper body, and swung out, unleashing two more devastating blasts that shredded the engine block of the attacking SUV and dropped the second shooter in his tracks.
A third gunman flanked around the shattered door, aiming directly at Vincent’s head.
Crack! Crack!
Two sharp, precise pistol rounds tore through the man’s shoulder and neck. He collapsed into the mud, gurgling in shock.
Vincent glanced back. Nora was kneeling on the floorboards, the Colt .45 smoking in her steady two-handed grip, her eyes cold as slate.
“Left clear,” she said, her voice shaking only slightly.
Vincent looked at her, a savage surge of pride and adoration roaring through his veins. “My girl,” he muttered under his breath.
The fourth gunman, realizing the ambush had turned into a slaughter, tossed his weapon into the road, turning to sprint down the alleyway.
Vincent raised the shotgun, aimed calmly down the sights, and pulled the trigger. The man dropped fifty yards away, sliding face-first into the dirty industrial puddle.
Silence returned to the alley, broken only by the hiss of rain on burning engine metal.
Vincent lowered the weapon. He turned to Nora, who was staring at the gun in her hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the shock began to set in.
He reached out, took the weapon gently from her fingers, engaged the safety, and set it aside. Then he pulled her into his arms, wrapping his coat around her shaking shoulders.
May you like
“It’s over,” he murmured, burying his face in her rain-dampened hair. “It’s over. You did good, Nora. You saved my life again.”
She buried her face in his chest, her fingers clutching his lapels just like she had in the basement. “I told you... I won't let you fall.”
