Chapter 8 - The Price of Redemption
The storm over the Hudson Valley was biblical. Thunder rattled the reinforced glass of the lead SUV as Dominic’s three-vehicle convoy tore up the Taconic State Parkway at over ninety miles per hour. The rain fell in blinding sheets, turning the black asphalt into a river of foam and spray.
Sadie sat in the passenger seat beside Dominic, who was driving the customized armored vehicle himself. His hands gripped the steering wheel with casual mastery, his face bathed in the green glow of the navigation screen tracking the stolen transport’s transponder.
“The transponder is stationary,” Dominic said, his voice razor-sharp. “Private Hangar 4 at Westchester County Airport. The plane is an unregistered twin-engine Cessna registered to a shell company in Panama. Keller plans to load the canvas, fly down the coast to the Bahamas, and disappear.”
“He won't just take the painting,” Sadie warned, checking the straps on the Kevlar vest Dominic had insisted she wear beneath her dark coat. “Grant is a narcissist. When a narcissist loses control, they don't just flee—they burn down the house behind them to prove they still have power.”
“Then we will ensure the fire consumes him first,” Dominic said grimly.
Twenty minutes later, the convoy blew through the perimeter security gates of the private airfield, tires screeching across the wet tarmac. Hangar 4 stood at the far edge of the runway, its massive corrugated doors halfway open, revealing the sleek silver fuselage of the waiting aircraft.
Dominic killed the headlights, bringing the vehicle to a silent halt behind a row of fuel tanks. Through the driving rain, Sadie saw four figures loading heavy aluminum cases into the cargo hold of the plane.
Among them stood Grant Keller, wearing a soaked trench coat, brandishing a submachine gun with reckless clumsiness. Beside him was Dante Marcone, looking nervously at his watch, shouting orders over the roar of the idling twin propellers.
“Michael, take two men around the rear fuel line,” Dominic commanded into his throat mic. “Disable the landing gear on that aircraft. Nobody leaves the ground. Sadie, stay in the vehicle until the primary targets are suppressed.”
“Dominic, be careful,” she whispered, grabbing his sleeve before he could open the door.
Dominic turned back, leaned in, and pressed a hard, bruising kiss to her lips. “I survived twenty years in the European underworld, Sadie. A failed real estate heir and a spoiled mob prince will not take me from you. Keep your head down.”
Dominic slipped into the storm like a wraith, moving with terrifying speed through the shadows of the fuel silos.
Seconds later, the night exploded.
A single sniper round from Michael’s rifle blew out the left tire of the Cessna with a deafening bang. The aircraft tilted violently, its propeller scraping against the wet tarmac in a shower of blinding orange sparks.
“Ambush!” Dante Marcone screamed, opening fire blindly into the rain with an automatic rifle.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark hangar in strobing bursts of light. Dominic’s men advanced with lethal discipline, firing precise, controlled double-taps that dropped Dante’s guards within seconds. Dante panicked, dropping his rifle and fleeing toward the service exit, only to be tackled into the flooded grass by Michael.
Grant stood alone beside the open cargo door, completely unhinged.
Through the rain-streaked window of the SUV, Sadie saw Grant look directly toward the truck. He recognized the vehicle. Even through the storm, she saw the twisted, manic realization in his eyes. He reached into the cargo hold of the plane, dragged out the large wooden crate containing the priceless Renaissance painting, and pulled a flare gun from his coat pocket.
“Dominic!” Sadie screamed, shoving the truck door open against the howling wind. “He’s going to burn the Titian!”
She scrambled out onto the wet tarmac, running toward the hangar with reckless disregard for her own safety.
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“Sadie, stay back!” Dominic roared, his voice cutting through the gunfire as he sprinted across the open tarmac toward the plane.
Grant saw her coming and raised the flare gun, pointing the glowing magnesium tip directly at the fragile, unvarnished canvas. “Stay right there, both of you! One step closer and forty million dollars of Italian history goes up in smoke! And you with it, Sadie!”"
