Chapter 8 - The Explosive Confrontation
The temperature inside the Moretti SUV dropped ten degrees as we tore through the rain-slicked industrial streets of the North Ward at ninety miles per hour. Dante sat in the passenger seat, his laptop open on his knees, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he hacked into the city’s traffic-camera grid, tracing Viktor Vance’s encrypted cell phone signal.
“He knew we were coming,” Dante snarled, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “The financial freeze tipped him off. He abandoned the warehouse, rigged the building to blow, and lured the federal marshals into a suicide mission.”
“Where is he?” I demanded, gripping the dashboard as we rounded a sharp corner on two wheels.
“His phone is pinging from the old municipal dry docks by the harbor,” Dante said, slamming the laptop shut. “He’s making a run for a private cargo ship bound for South America. He thinks he can escape with whatever liquid cash he managed to shove into duffel bags before his accounts were locked.”
“Marcus!” Dante barked into the radio comms linked to the trailing convoy of black SUVs. “Abort the warehouse raid! Reroute all units to the municipal dry docks! Surround the harbor and block every exit! Nobody leaves!”
Within twelve minutes, our convoy screeched to a halt on the wet, salt-cured concrete of the municipal dry docks. Giant shipping cranes loomed overhead like skeletal giants against the bruised twilight sky, casting long, menacing shadows across the rusting hulls of cargo ships.
Dante shoved his door open, drawing his sidearm with fluid, lethal precision. I grabbed my own compact pistol from the glove compartment—a weapon Dante had insisted I learn how to fire during my rigorous security training—and followed him out into the freezing sea breeze.
Marcus and twenty armed enforcers swarmed out of the trailing SUVs, fan-guarding the perimeter.
“Boss! Cargo ship The Orion is prepping to cast off!” Marcus shouted over the roar of crashing waves and screaming gulls. “Viktor is on the upper deck!”
“Move!” Dante commanded.
We sprinted across the gangplank, our boots pounding against the steel deck of the massive container ship. The salty air stung my eyes, but my adrenaline kept my senses razor-sharp. We pushed through the heavy metal doors of the superstructure, clearing the stairwells level by level until we burst out onto the open command bridge.
There, standing near the ship's massive steering wheel with a heavy duffel bag in one hand and a detonator switch in the other, was Viktor Vance.
He looked older than his reputation suggested—hair graying at the temples, his expensive suit wrinkled from panic, his eyes wide and bloodshot with absolute madness.
“Stop right there, Moretti!” Viktor shrieked, waving the detonator frantically in the air. “Take one more step, and I press this button! I’ve wired the entire dry dock and the ship's engine room with enough C4 to send this whole harbor straight to hell!”
Dante stopped dead in his tracks, lowering his gun just an inch, his posture radiating lethal, controlled fury.
“You’re cornered, Viktor,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that low, terrifying baritone that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Your accounts are frozen, your men are captured, and your empire is gone. Pressing that button only guarantees you die alone in the dark.”
“I’m not dying alone!” Viktor laughed hysterically, spittle flying from his lips. “If I go down, I’m taking you, your little whore of a strategist, and your precious empire with me!”
He slammed his thumb down toward the red button on the detonator.
My instincts overrode logic. I didn't hesitate. I raised my compact pistol, tracked the erratic movement of his hand, and pulled the trigger.
Crack.
The bullet struck the heavy plastic casing of the detonator precisely on impact, shattering the device into a thousand spinning plastic shards. Viktor screamed in shock, dropping the useless remnants as his hand went numb.
Before he could reach for the 9mm pistol holstered at his waist, Dante closed the distance with terrifying, predatory speed. He slammed Viktor backward against the steel bulkhead, wrenching the heavy duffel bag from his grip and driving the butt of his gun hard against Viktor’s jaw.
Viktor collapsed unconscious onto the steel deck, blood pooling from a split lip.
Dante stood over him, breathing heavily, before turning his head to look at me. The sheer, terrifying adrenaline of the moment melted away, replaced by absolute, overwhelming shock.
“You... you shot the detonator out of his hand,” Dante breathed out, staring at me as if he were seeing me for the very first time. “From forty feet away. While the ship was moving.”
I lowered my smoking pistol, letting out a long, shaky breath as the adrenaline finally began to recede from my veins. I looked down at my shaking hands, realizing what I had just done.
“Well,” I offered a weak, breathless smile. “ actuarial risk analysis requires exceptionally good hand-eye coordination.”
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Dante let out a disbelieving laugh, holstering his weapon, crossing the space between us in two strides, and pulling me into a fierce, suffocating embrace that lifted me off the deck.
“Remind me never, ever to get on your bad side, Miss Fields,” he murmured against my hair.
