Chapter 9 - The Siege of Warehouse 4
The warehouse transformed into a literal war zone within three seconds.
Gunfire ripped through the cavernous space like rolling thunder. Tracers carved brilliant neon lines through the smoke and snow flurries.
Vincent hit the concrete floor running. Despite his severe injuries, he moved with lethal, devastating speed. His rifle barked in controlled three-round bursts, dropping three of Mario’s lieutenants before they could even level their weapons.
“Claire! Get down!” Luke roared, sliding across the concrete to tackle me behind a massive steel forklift as bullets chewed through the metal frame, throwing sparks in all directions.
I pulled the nine-millimeter pistol Vincent had given me from my holster, my hands remarkably steady despite the chaotic bedlam.
“Grandma is in the crossfire!” I yelled over the deafening noise.
“I see her!” Luke shouted, returning fire over the hood of the forklift. “Boss is moving toward her now!”
Across the warehouse, Vincent was a one-man army. He discarded his empty rifle, drew dual sidearms, and closed the distance toward Mario’s position with unrelenting fury. Every enemy who stepped into his path was eliminated with brutal, surgical precision.
Mario, realizing his entire defensive perimeter had collapsed in under two minutes, panicked.
He grabbed the back of Grandma’s wheelchair, leveling his gold pistol directly against her temple.
“Hold your fire!” Mario shrieked, his voice cracking in hysteria. “Hold your fire or I blow her head off right now! Hayes! Drop your weapons!”
The gunfire in the warehouse sputtered and died down, leaving only the sound of the howling blizzard and the groans of wounded men on the floor.
Vincent stepped into the perimeter of the hanging spotlight.
His tactical vest was stained with his own reopened surgical wound, blood dripping from his side, but his posture was that of a wrathful god. He slowly lowered his weapons to his sides, his gray eyes locking onto Mario with a death promise so potent it made the air vibrate.
“Let the old woman go, Mario,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Your men are dead. Your syndicate is finished. This ends between you and me.”
“You think you’ve won, Vincent?!” Mario spat, saliva flying from his lips as his hand trembled violently against the gun. “I’m taking her with me! And then I’m going to—”
Grandma Clara, who had been sitting quietly in the chair, suddenly opened her eyes wide.
With the surprising strength of an old woman who had survived decades of hardship, Grandma slammed the metal heel of her orthopedic boot directly down onto Mario’s foot, driving all her weight into his toes!
Mario shrieked in sudden, blinding pain, his balance faltering, the gun jerking six inches away from her head.
That fraction of a second was all Vincent Hayes needed.
Vincent lunged forward like a striking cobra. In a single, fluid motion, his arm swept upward, knocking Mario’s gun into the air, while his left hand clamped around Mario’s throat like a hydraulic vise.
With a sickening crunch, Vincent drove Mario’s back against a steel support pillar, lifting the heavy mob boss completely off his feet by his neck.
Mario gasped, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, his hands clawing desperately at Vincent’s iron grip.
“You threatened my woman,” Vincent whispered, his voice vibrating with primeval rage. “You threatened her family. And for that, there is no grave deep enough to hide your bones.”
Vincent drew a tactical combat blade from his belt.
With a swift, brutal thrust, he drove the blade straight into Mario Moretti’s chest, piercing through his heart and pinning him directly to the steel pillar.
Mario’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body shuddering once before going entirely limp.
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Vincent released his grip. The former king of the southern syndicate slumped to the frozen concrete, lifeless.
The battle of Chicago was over.
