Chapter 3 - The Midnight Convoy
The black armored Suburban idled in the back alley behind The Marlowe Room, exhaust pluming white against the freezing drizzle.
Tessa sat in the leather passenger seat of the rear cabin, wearing her worn wool winter coat over her server uniform.
Next to her sat Roman Bellamy, reading live satellite feeds off an encrypted tablet.
Between them rested a polished steel case containing two suppressed automatic pistols and three satellite transponders.
"I'm not a soldier, Mr. Bellamy," Tessa said, staring straight ahead at the tinted divider glass. "I know how to carry three plates on one arm and recite twenty-five daily specials from memory. I don't belong in whatever war this is."
Roman didn't look up from his screen.
"Your father taught you how to shoot at the range in Quincy when you were twelve," he remarked calmly. "By fourteen, you were stripping a Beretta blindfolded. By nineteen, after your father was murdered, you vanished into the New York service industry with fake papers."
Tessa’s jaw clenched so tight her molars ached.
"You spent a lot of time digging into my life."
"I invest in people with survival instincts," Roman said. He tapped a red coordinate dot on the screen. "You didn't just spot those three hitters tonight. You decoded their signal relay. You counted Celeste’s finger taps and matched them to the bar."
He turned his dark eyes toward her.
"That isn't waitressing. That's tactical awareness. You were raised in this world, Tessa, whether you want to admit it or not."
The SUV lurched into gear, turning onto Tenth Avenue with two unmarked black sedans trailing tight in formation.
Snow was falling thicker now, clinging to windshield wipers and turning the pavement into slick black glass.
"Where are we going?" Tessa asked.
"Greenpoint. The old sugar refinery on the water," Roman replied. "Marcus Vance thinks he holds all the cards because he has Celeste’s brother. He’s expecting a confirmation ping at midnight from the hitmen inside the restaurant."
"And if he doesn't get it?"
"He kills the boy, packs his bags, and flies to a non-extradition villa in Montenegro before sunrise," Roman said.
He opened the steel case, checked the chamber of a black tactical firearm, and laid it across his lap.
"We have exactly thirty-four minutes before midnight."
"You're walking into an ambush," Tessa warned, her voice tight. "If Vance is smart enough to turn your own fiancée against you, he’s smart enough to know three cheap gunmen might fail. He has a backup plan."
Roman leaned back, a cold, predatory smile touching his mouth.
"Marcus Vance is an accountant who inherited his uncle's muscle," Roman scoffed softly. "He thinks brutality equates to leverage. He believes fear is a one-way street."
His phone vibrated against the console.
Roman tapped speaker.
A voice filled the cabin, rasping and oily.
"Roman. I hear the dining room at Marlowe got a bit chilly tonight."
It was Marcus Vance.
Tessa held her breath, watching Roman’s face.
Roman’s expression remained utterly blank, his voice smooth and conversational.
"Marcus. You always had terrible taste in hired help."
A harsh laugh came through the speaker.
"They were just noise, Roman. An appetizer. The main course is sitting tied to an iron pillar right in front of me. Little Owen Arden looks terrified. He’s asking for his sister."
"Let the boy walk, Marcus," Roman said quietly. "This dispute is between you and me. The docks, the concrete terminals, the upstate distribution lines. We settle it face to face."
"Oh, we will," Vance sneered. "Come to the refinery pier alone. Unarmed. Five minutes before midnight. If I see a single car from your convoy, I put a hole in Owen's skull and dump him into the bay."
The line went dead with a loud click.
Tessa turned to Roman, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"You're not actually going in alone."
May you like
Roman picked up the weapon from his lap, slid a spare magazine into his coat pocket, and looked at her.
"Of course not," he said softly. "You and I are going through the drainage tunnel."
