Chapter 7 - Flight from the Skyline
"Down!" Enzo roared, grabbing Emily by the back of her jacket and shoving her hard behind the granite island as a second suppressed round chewed through the drywall above their heads.
From the service corridor, the sound of retreating footsteps echoed rapidly against the concrete stairs leading down to the emergency fire escape. Maria. The old housekeeper had traded her apron for a ticket out of the syndicate, and she wasn't leaving witnesses.
"She's heading for the service exit," Enzo cursed, checking the magazine of his Walther. He only had four rounds left.
Siri didn't wait for instructions. With a low, ferocious bark that shook the remaining glassware in the kitchen, the mastiff bolted toward the service corridor like a furry freight train, his claws tearing deep gouges into the hardwood flooring.
"Wait! Siri, no!" Emily screamed, scrambling over the island to follow him.
"Emily, stay back!" Enzo shouted, grabbing her arm with a grip like iron. "That dog is a weapon, but Maria has a submachine gun!"
"He's my dog!" Emily yelled, wrenching her arm free with a burst of adrenaline she didn't know she possessed. She sprinted down the dark service corridor, the acrid smell of cordite burning her throat.
When she reached the heavy fire escape door at the end of the hall, it stood wide open, banging rhythmically against the exterior brick wall in the cold wind off the river.
Stepping out onto the metal landing, Emily looked down. Forty floors below, the wet pavement of the financial district glistened under the amber streetlights. A black town car was idling by the loading bay, its headlights cutting through the drizzle. Maria was already halfway down the external metal stairs, clutching a heavy canvas duffel bag in one hand and a suppressed Ingram MAC-10 in the other.
And thirty feet below Maria, bounding down the iron steps with terrifying, impossible agility, was Siri.
The mastiff was closing the distance between himself and the fleeing housekeeper with every second, his massive jaws snapping at the hem of her wool coat.
"Maria, drop the bag!" a voice bellowed from the upper landing.
Enzo stepped out onto the fire escape beside Emily, raising his pistol with both hands, bracing his weight against the cold iron railing. He didn't shoot at the woman; he aimed directly at the asphalt beneath the idling town car, firing two rapid shots that punctured both front tires with loud, sharp pops.
The driver of the town car panicked, slammed the vehicle into reverse, and fishtailed out of the loading bay, abandoning Maria to her fate on the stairs.
Maria stopped dead, turning around on the narrow iron landing thirty feet above the pavement. Her face, usually so kind and grandmotherly, was twisted into a mask of pure, desperate malice. She raised the MAC-10 toward the charging dog.
"No!" Emily screamed, throwing herself down the stairs after Siri.
Maria pulled the trigger. A burst of suppressed rounds hammered into the metal grating around Siri’s paws, sending white-hot sparks flying into the night air. The mastiff yelped—a sharp, high-pitched sound—as a bullet grazed his right flank, but he didn't stop.
With a final, earth-shattering bound, Siri launched his 150-pound frame directly at Maria’s chest.
The impact was like a falling safe. The old woman’s scream was cut short as she slammed backward against the iron railing. The canvas duffel bag slipped from her fingers, tumbling end-over-end through the open air before landing with a heavy thud on the wet concrete forty feet below.
Siri stood over her, one massive paw planted squarely on her chest, his teeth bared inches from her throat, growling a sound that promised absolute destruction if she so much as blinked.
Emily reached the landing a second later, falling to her knees beside the dog, her hands frantically checking his side for blood. "Siri! Siri, are you okay?"
The dog turned his massive head, nudging her chin with his wet nose, letting out a soft, reassuring whine that completely contradicted the terrifying predator standing over a terrified syndicate traitor.
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Enzo walked down the stairs slowly, holster his empty pistol. He looked down at the canvas duffel bag lying open on the pavement below, its contents spilled across the wet concrete—dozens of encrypted flash drives, waterproof notebooks, and a heavy, leather-bound ledger stamped with the seal of Vanguard Global.
"Well," Enzo said quietly, looking down at Emily and her dog through the fine Manhattan drizzle. "It appears we found the paperwork."
