Chapter 3 - Ambush on Dorchester Avenue
The air inside the tiny office turned freezing cold. Claire reached instinctively for the phone on her desk, but I caught her wrist gently, pulling her hand away.
"Don't call the police," I said calmly. "Marcus has officers on his payroll. If you call dispatch, you’ll just be giving them a tracking beacon."
"What does he want?" Claire’s voice shook, but her gaze didn't break from mine. "There’s nothing here! Just forty kids, some secondhand books, and overdue heating bills!"
"He wants the ledger," I said, stepping toward the window and peering through the slit in the blinds. Two blocks south, three black Suburbans with tinted windows blew through a red light, accelerating toward our street. "Vincent kept a black book that detailed every politician, judge, and dock master on the eastern seaboard. Marcus thinks Vincent hid the encryption keys here under Sophie's name."
"Is it here?" she asked, terror sharpening her voice.
"No," I answered, turning to face her. "My father was a calculating bastard, but he wasn't reckless enough to hide dynamite under a nursery. Marcus is acting on paranoia and greed. But that won't stop him from tearing this house apart to find it."
I pulled my primary firearm from its shoulder holster, checked the chamber with a single crisp click, and set it on the desk. Then I dialed Noah back.
"Noah, bring the convoy. Full tactical protocol. Block Dorchester Avenue at the north junction. Nobody enters this perimeter until I say so."
"Understood, Boss. Five minutes out."
"Five minutes is too late," I muttered, hanging up.
I turned to Claire. "Gather all the children into the storm cellar beneath the kitchen. Lock the heavy iron bolt from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me. If you hear shooting, stay flat against the concrete."
Claire stared at the gun on the desk, then met my eyes. The hostility from before had vanished, replaced by an understanding born of sudden, brutal reality. "What about you?"
"I’m the head of the Vale family," I replied smoothly. "It’s time I started acting like it."
Within ninety seconds, Claire had ushered the children downstairs with astonishing poise, whispering to them that they were playing a secret game of midnight treasure hunters. Sophie was the last to descend the wooden steps. She turned around, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one ear missing.
"Mr. Quiet?" she called out softly. "Are the bad monsters outside?"
I walked to the top of the cellar stairs, reached into my coat, and handed her the glitter crown she had made for me. "No monsters today, Sophie. Put this on. It keeps kings safe, right?"
She giggled softly, jammed the purple crown onto her curls, and let Claire pull her down into the darkness. The heavy oak trapdoor slammed shut, and I heard the slide of the heavy iron bolt.
I walked back to the front foyer, took a seat on the wooden bench beside the shoe racks, and waited.
Ten seconds later, the front door was kicked off its frame with a splintering crash.
Four men in tactical vests stepped inside, assault rifles raised. Behind them strolled Marcus Vance, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and a vicious, satisfied grin. His silver hair was slicked back, and his hands rested casually in his slacks.
"Well, well," Marcus chuckled, stepping over the broken door molding. "The prodigal son playing babysitter in the slums. Vincent really did lose his mind in the end, didn't he, Dominic? Hiding forty million in trust funds for street rats."
I didn't flinch. I sat motionless, my hands resting lazily on my knees. "You're trespassing, Marcus."
"I'm reclaiming company property," Marcus snapped, stepping closer, his men fanning out behind him. "Give me the safety deposit key Vincent left in the girl's trust document, Dominic. Hand it over, and maybe I let you walk away with a small pension in Florida. Refuse, and we dig through the floorboards—and whoever is hiding underneath them."
"You always were an impatient fool, Marcus," I said softly.
May you like
Outside, the unmistakable roar of four heavy engines shook the front porch windows. The glass shattered as two smoke canisters were launched through the parlor, filling the room with thick, stinging gray fog.
The front windows imploded as Noah and twelve of my personal security operatives breached the entry, red laser sights cutting through the smoke like crimson needles. Marcus’s men barely raised their weapons before the concussive crack of suppressed gunfire filled the narrow hallway.
