Chapter 6 - THE RAT IN THE TUNNEL
The third rail hummed six inches from my left heel.
Six hundred volts of direct current waiting beneath the protective wooden cover.
Dominic’s gun didn't waver.
He stood twenty feet away, his trench coat unbuttoned, his silk tie fluttering in the subterranean draft.
Behind him, his two enforcers spread out along the narrow walkway.
“You shouldn't have stolen from the kitchen register, Dominic,” I said.
My voice didn't shake.
I surprised myself.
Dominic frowned, his pale eyes narrowing.
“What are you babbling about?”
“The Glass Lantern Diner,” I said, keeping my body between his barrel and Matteo’s chest.
“You told the Morettis that Matteo took three million from the union vaults.”
“You didn't give that money to the Morettis.”
“You kept it.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
A flicker of genuine rage broke through his smooth, aristocratic mask.
“You don't know anything about the books, little girl.”
“I audited the accounts on Matteo’s computer this morning,” I lied smoothly.
“Every wire transfer from the port authority went through an offshore shell company called Vane Holdings.”
“Registered in Panama.”
“Under your mother’s maiden name.”
One of the enforcers behind Dominic hesitated.
His gaze flickered toward the back of Dominic’s head.
“Dominic?” the enforcer muttered.
“Is that true?”
“Shut up, Marco!” Dominic snarled without looking back.
“She’s lying to buy time!”
“Check the corporate filing on your phone, Marco,” I pushed, leaning into the lie with surgical precision.
“Panama registration 884-Bravo.”
“Dominic took forty percent off the top before he offered you your cut.”
The distraction lasted half a second.
In this world, half a second was an eternity.
Matteo moved from the gravel.
He didn't stand.
He rolled onto his right hip, drawing the snub-nosed revolver from beneath his torn coat.
BANG.
The heavy .38 round struck Dominic’s right shoulder.
Bone shattered with a wet crunch.
Dominic shrieked, dropping the Kimber .45 into the gravel.
The enforcer, Marco, didn't fire at Matteo.
He drew his own weapon and stepped backward, pointing his gun at Dominic’s head.
“You stealing bastard,” Marco hissed.
“Shoot him!” Dominic screamed, clutching his spurting shoulder.
“Shoot both of them!”
From the tunnel behind them, the iron rails began to sing.
A high-pitched, vibrating hum that traveled through the steel.
The dual headlights of a maintenance locomotive rounded the curve two hundred yards away.
A horn blasted through the dark—a deafening, two-tone trumpet of iron and compressed air.
“TRAIN!” Marco yelled, diving into the narrow safety alcove carved into the concrete wall.
The second enforcer bolted back toward the station entrance.
Dominic scrambled across the tracks, his fingers clawing for his dropped Kimber.
Matteo was already on his feet.
The silver pen still protruded from his chest, bobbing with every heavy breath he took, but he moved like an avenging demon.
He caught Dominic by the collar of his trench coat.
With one heave, Matteo hoisted his traitorous underboss off the ties and slammed him against the concrete wall.
The train roared past three feet away.
The wind from the cars tore at our clothes, the clatter of the steel wheels drowning out Dominic’s screams.
Ten cars of heavy ballast rock rushed past in a blur of gray dust and grease.
When the train cleared, the tunnel fell into a ringing, smoky silence.
Matteo stood holding Dominic against the wall with his left hand.
His right hand pressed the barrel of his revolver beneath Dominic’s chin.
Dominic was weeping.
Blood and snot ran down his lip, soaking his expensive silk collar.
“Matteo... please...” Dominic sobbed.
“We were brothers... in Chicago... fifteen years...”
“My brothers don't shoot me in alleys, Dominic,” Matteo whispered.
His voice was dead.
Cold as the stone beneath our boots.
“Who ordered the shipment at Pier 4?”
“Moretti!” Dominic choked out.
“Sal Moretti!”
“He has thirty men at the pier right now!”
“They’re loading the missiles onto the Northern Star!”
“And where are the port authority manifests?” Matteo asked.
“In my car!” Dominic cried.
“The trunk of the Mercedes parked at the Atlantic Avenue garage!”
“Key is in my pocket!”
Matteo reached into Dominic’s coat and pulled out a silver key ring.
He tossed the keys behind him.
They landed at my feet with a sharp clink.
“Pick them up, Clara,” Matteo said, never taking his eyes off Dominic.
I knelt and scooped up the keys with my left hand.
“Matteo,” Dominic whispered, his eyes wide with animal terror.
“Give me a pass... for the old man’s sake... for your father...”
Matteo lowered the revolver from Dominic’s chin.
Dominic let out a ragged, gasping breath of relief.
Then Matteo drove his fist straight into Dominic’s broken shoulder.
Dominic shrieked, his knees folding beneath him.
Matteo pulled the heavy iron handcuffs from Dominic’s own belt.
He dragged Dominic to the massive iron conduit pipe running along the tunnel wall.
He ratcheted the steel cuffs around Dominic’s wrists, locking him securely to the pipe.
“I won't kill you in the dark, Dominic,” Matteo said, wiping his bloody lip with the back of his hand.
“The harbor police will find you in twenty minutes.”
“And you will tell them every single name on Sal Moretti’s payroll.”
Matteo turned his back on the screaming traitor.
He walked over to me, took my good hand in his, and led me toward the emergency exit stairs leading up to Atlantic Avenue.
May you like
“Come, doctor,” Matteo said softly.
“We have a ship to burn.”
