Chapter 9 - The Fall of the Eldest
The impact sent both men crashing against the rusted steel guardrail. The old iron groaned under their combined weight, snapping two corroded bolts.
Fifty feet below, Norah watched in absolute horror as the railing gave way.
Elliot managed to hook his left arm around the solid vertical crane support, but Enzo’s boots slipped on the icy grating. With a sharp gasp of terror, Enzo tumbled over the edge, his hands frantically clawing at the void until his fingers caught the sleeve of Elliot’s coat.
Enzo dangled over the black, freezing abyss of the lake.
The wind shrieked around them. Enzo looked down at the churning dark water and jagged concrete breakwaters below. His face went entirely pale, all his arrogant bravado evaporating into raw, pathetic terror.
"Elliot! Don't let go!" Enzo screamed, his voice breaking into sobs. "Please! We’re brothers! Blood! You can't let me die, Elliot! Pull me up!"
Elliot looked down at him. His noise-canceling earpiece had fallen during the struggle; the full brunt of the gale, the roar of the water, and Enzo’s shrill screaming poured into his ears at deafening volume. Pain spiked behind Elliot’s eyes, a massive sensory overload threatening to shut down his nervous system.
His fingers began to slip against the wet fabric.
"Dominic always said you were weak because you had no stomach for killing," Enzo cried, tears mixing with the freezing rain on his cheeks. "Prove him wrong, Elliot! Show mercy! Please!"
On the ground below, Norah could see Elliot’s body locking up under the sensory assault. She ran to the base of the crane ladder, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted with every ounce of air in her lungs:
"Elliot! Sixty-eight beats! You are the anchor! You decide who lives!"
Her voice cut through the tempest.
Elliot heard her. The cacophony of the storm sorted itself into distinct variables in his mind: wind speed forty-two miles per hour, load weight one hundred and eighty-five pounds, friction coefficient point three.
Elliot looked Enzo dead in the eyes.
"You are right, Enzo," Elliot spoke, his voice clear, calm, and terrifyingly steady. "I do not kill. Not because I am weak. But because murder is an inefficient solution to a solved problem."
With a sudden surge of calculated strength, Elliot leveraged his back against the steel beam, reached down with his right hand, clamped his fingers around Enzo’s wrist with an unbreakable grip, and hauled his brother backward over the broken rail.
They both crashed onto the iron deck of the platform.
Enzo lay on the steel grating, gasping for air, weeping hysterically into his hands, entirely broken in spirit.
Two minutes later, Valente and his men reached the top of the tower. They cuffed Enzo’s wrists behind his back with heavy steel restraints and hauled him to his feet. Enzo didn't fight. He didn't speak. He hung his head like a condemned ghost.
Elliot slowly climbed down the ladder, his muscles aching, his suit soaked through.
The moment his feet touched the solid concrete of the pier, Norah stepped into his arms. She didn't say a word. She wrapped her wool coat around him, pressing her forehead against his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart slowly decelerate back to normal.
"Eighty-four beats," Elliot whispered into her wet hair, his arms closing securely around her waist. "Dropping to seventy."
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"You did it," Norah whispered, kissing his cold cheek. "It's over."
"Not yet," Elliot said, looking past the containers toward the city skyline. "Enzo did not fund this operation alone. He had backing from inside the city council. The real war is in City Hall."
