Chapter 5 - Blood on the Blades
The deafening roar of gunfire tore through the warehouse as Vincent tackled me behind a stack of rusted shipping containers just as a hail of bullets shredded the concrete where we had been standing. Concrete dust and splintered wood filled the air, choking my lungs with memories of the burning arena.
For a split second, darkness crept around the edges of my vision. The smell of sulfur and smoke threatened to drag me back into the nightmare—the flames licking at my skates, the screams of my friends trapped behind chained fire exits.
""Emily! Look at me!""
Vincent’s hands gripped my cheeks firmly, snapping me out of the paralysis. His eyes were wide, fierce, and utterly unyielding.
""You are not in the fire!"" he shouted over the deafening chatter of automatic rifles. ""You are here! With me! We finish this together!""
The fog in my mind vanished, replaced by cold, crystal-clear resolve. ""Give me a weapon.""
Vincent pulled a compact Glock from an ankle holster and slapped it into my hand. ""Ten rounds. Point and squeeze. Marco! Flank left with the suppressors! We take out their high line!""
Marco and two mercenaries moved with terrifying precision, returning fire with high-caliber rifles that tore through Arthur’s front line. Cries of agony echoed across the cavernous room as two of Arthur’s guards fell.
Arthur was already being hurried toward the rear exit by four private bodyguards, limping furiously toward a waiting speed boat docked at the pier's watergate.
""He's running!"" I yelled.
""Not on my watch,"" Vincent snarled. He broke cover, charging through the crossfire with unnatural speed, firing his 1911 with deadly accuracy. Two guards dropped before they could even pivot their barrels toward him.
I followed right behind him. A guard burst from behind a rusted forklift, raising a shotgun directly at Vincent’s blind spot.
My instincts took over. I didn't shoot—I swung the heavy leather skates hanging from my neck with all the centrifugal force of a triple axel. The razor-sharp carbon steel blade struck the guard across the forearm, slicing through leather and tendon. The shotgun clattered to the floor as the man shrieked in agony. I raised the Glock and fired a single round into his shoulder, putting him down permanently.
Vincent glanced back at me, his eyes widening with dark exhilaration. ""Remind me to buy you more skates, wife!""
We sprinted toward the rear watergate. The air here was freezing; the warehouse floor gave way to an old indoor ice storage channel—a fifty-yard stretch of neglected, semi-frozen brine and ice that connected the warehouse to the ocean slip.
Arthur’s remaining two bodyguards were trying to drag him across the treacherous, slippery frozen canal to reach the waiting boat. Arthur slipped on the slick surface, cursing violently as his cane clattered away.
""Arthur!"" Vincent’s roar shook the iron rafters.
The two bodyguards turned and raised their submachine guns. Vincent dove into a slide across the icy concrete, firing upward. Both guards took bullets to the chest, collapsing backward into the freezing seawater with heavy splashes.
Arthur was left alone, sitting on the dirty ice, clutching his bruised hip, panting like a cornered animal.
Vincent walked onto the slick ice with steady, measured steps, stopping three feet from his father. The barrel of his smoking 1911 was pointed directly between the old man's eyes.
""Get up,"" Vincent whispered.
Arthur glared up at his son, his face twisted in venomous hatred. ""Shoot me, you bastard. Shoot your own father! The families will never accept a patricide as boss! You’ll be hunted until you die!""
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""He won't shoot you, Arthur,"" I said, stepping onto the ice behind Vincent, my blades resting quietly over my shoulder. ""Death is too easy for you. You like fire, don't you? You like watching people burn slowly.""
Arthur's eyes darted between the two of us, finally tasting true, unadulterated terror.
