Chapter 7 - THE CRACK IN THE SILO
A thunderous explosion tore through the roof of Pier 42.
A high-velocity sniper round from the rusted crane pulverized the main transformer box on the eastern wall.
Blinding blue electrical arcs showered the concrete floor.
Every halogen floodlight died in an instant.
Total, suffocating blackness swallowed the warehouse.
"Fire!" Richard Whitmore screamed into the dark.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the shadows like deadly lightning.
Automatic gunfire chewed through concrete pillars, throwing sharp stone splinters into the air.
Dante didn't dive for cover.
He surged forward into the dark with the terrifying, silent speed of a phantom.
He caught the first Whitmore mercenary by the throat with his bare left hand.
A sickening crack of cartilage.
The man collapsed before he could clear his holster.
Dante ripped the submachine gun from the dying man's grip and fired two controlled bursts into the muzzle flashes near the pillar.
Two more bodies hit the oil-slicked floor.
Elena didn't freeze.
The second the lights went out, she threw herself across the open floor toward the iron pillar.
"Mom!" she screamed through the roar of the gunfire.
She reached the chair.
Her hands found her mother’s trembling shoulders in the dark.
She pulled the surgical utility knife from her pocket and sawed frantically through the heavy zip-ties.
The plastic snapped.
"I have you, Mom," Elena wept, pulling Clara’s frail body down behind the concrete foundation.
"I have you."
Suddenly, a hand clamped down into Elena’s hair with savage force.
Elena was yanked backward onto her spine.
Pain exploded across her scalp.
Vanessa Whitmore straddled her chest in the dark, the brass knuckles on her right fist gleaming in the flashes of gunfire.
"You ruined my life!" Vanessa shrieked, her face twisted into a demonic sneer.
"You stole my wedding!"
"You stole my billionaire!"
Vanessa drew back her fist to smash Elena’s jaw.
Elena didn't scream.
She didn't beg.
She remembered her mother’s voice: Never close your eyes when someone tries to hurt you.
Elena reached into her coat with her right hand.
She brought the snub-nosed .38 straight up between Vanessa’s ribs.
She didn't hesitate.
She pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The deafening concussion inside the enclosed space shook Elena’s teeth.
Vanessa gasped, her mouth opening in silent, disbelieving shock.
Her fist went limp.
She tumbled sideways off Elena, clutching her bleeding shoulder, groaning in the dirt.
Elena scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking, the smoking revolver still raised.
Across the warehouse, an engine roared to life.
A heavy armored flatbed truck parked near the water slip was throttling up.
Richard Whitmore sat behind the wheel, his face pale with panic.
Beside him in the cab sat Lorenzo Moretti.
Lorenzo was fighting for the steering wheel, his iron calipers kicking at the dashboard.
"You used me, Richard!" Lorenzo roared, clawing at Whitmore's eyes.
"You used me to kill my father!"
The truck veered wildly across the concrete floor, smashing through wooden crates and steel drums.
Dante sprinted toward the moving vehicle.
He leaped onto the running board on the driver’s side, his fingers digging into the steel doorframe.
He smashed the driver’s window with the butt of his automatic.
Glass exploded into Whitmore's face.
Dante reached inside, grabbing Richard by his cashmere collar.
"End of the line, Richard," Dante growled.
Richard slammed on the brakes.
The truck skidded sideways, its rear wheels sliding over the edge of the pier.
The vehicle teetered precariously over the freezing, churning black water of Lake Michigan forty feet below.
Dante dragged Richard through the broken window frame, throwing him onto the wet concrete of the pier.
Richard landed heavily, groaning, coughing blood onto his designer shirt.
Behind them, the door of the truck flew open.
Lorenzo tumbled out onto the wooden planks, his calipers tangling in a mooring line.
The truck groaned.
The balance shifted.
The five-ton vehicle tilted backward into the abyss, plunging into the icy lake with a thunderous roar of white water.
Silence returned to Pier 42.
Broken only by the howling wind and the groans of the wounded.
Marcus Reed and ten heavily armed Moretti soldiers swarmed the warehouse, their tactical flashlights cutting through the settling smoke.
Dante stood over Richard Whitmore.
He lowered the barrel of his gun until it rested directly against Whitmore's forehead.
"Dante... wait," Whitmore wheezed, raising his bloody hands.
"The Commission... the Commission will execute you for this..."
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"The Commission works for me, Richard," Dante whispered.
"And you just tried to murder my family."
