Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Canal
Sal didn't waste breath arguing. He didn't plead for mercy, because he knew that in my world, an offense against a boss’s child carried only one sentence: total erasure.
With terrifying speed, Sal kicked the underside of the heavy butcher table upward, flipping three hundred pounds of steel directly into the air to create an improvised shield. From beneath the rim, his hand emerged with a chrome-plated .45 caliber pistol.
""Take them down!"" Sal roared.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the freezing warehouse. Two of Sal's loyalists standing near the meat grinders drew submachine guns, spraying high-velocity rounds toward the entrance. But Viktor was already moving. A barrage of controlled, lethal fire erupted from my security detail. Tony Moretti and the other neutral capos dove flat against the concrete floor, pulling their coats over their heads as steel jacketed lead tore through hanging sides of beef, spraying ice, blood, and splintered wood through the air.
Sal scrambled backward toward the rear loading dock, firing three blind shots over his shoulder. I drew my custom matte-black Sig Sauer from my shoulder holster, stepping over the flipped table with cold precision. I didn't run; I advanced with measured, rhythmic strides, putting two rounds through the chest of a gunman who stepped into my path before tracking Sal's muddy boot prints out into the storm.
The loading bay doors were wide open. Outside, the rain had turned into sleet, slicking the concrete ramps that sloped down toward the industrial shipping canal. Sal had two armored SUVs waiting, their engines idling high.
""Sal!"" I yelled through the roaring wind.
He spun on the rain-slicked concrete, raising his weapon. I squeezed the trigger once. The round took him clean through the right shoulder, spinning him around and sending his chrome .45 skittering into the dark waters of the canal. He collapsed against the rear tire of his SUV, clutching his shattered collarbone, gasping for air as sleet pelted his face.
I walked up to him, the barrel of my gun pointed directly between his eyes. The remaining drivers in the SUVs took one look through their rain-streaked windshields, saw my perimeter team swarming the fence with thermal scopes, threw their hands over the steering wheels, and cut the ignitions.
""You should have killed me seven years ago, Sal,"" I said, standing over him, the cold rain washing the cordite smoke from my slide.
""You think... you think you won?"" Sal coughed, spitting a mixture of blood and rain onto his lapel. He smiled a twisted, bloody smile. ""You don't know half of it, Marcus. Hayes wasn't working for me alone. Who do you think paid Hayes twenty million to leave the country after Grace was buried? Look closer at your own family tree, Marcus. Look at who benefits when both your daughters disappear and the Blackwell empire reverts to the holding trust.""
May you like
""Talk,"" I ordered, pressing the hot steel of the barrel against his temple.
""Check the second volume of that hard drive,"" Sal hissed, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from shock and freezing rain. ""Your uncle Julian... your precious family doctor. He didn't just run the blood tests tonight, Marcus. He was the one who handed Hayes the paralytic seven years ago.""
