Chapter 7 - The Interception in Midtown and the First Direct Strike by Victor Costa
Two weeks of blissful, passionate sanctuary were shattered on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in downtown Manhattan.
I had insisted on traveling into the city to visit a high-end physical rehabilitation specialist who was managing the scar-tissue breakdown in my shoulder. Dominic, tied up in an emergency syndicate council meeting in Brooklyn, had assigned Enzo and a four-man tactical security team to escort me in an armored Mercedes Maybach, flanked by a trailing security SUV.
"We take FDR Drive straight to the clinic, Mrs. Rossi," Enzo said from the front passenger seat, constantly checking the side mirrors. "Boss gave strict orders: thirty minutes inside the clinic, then straight back to the compound."
"Understood, Enzo," I smiled, looking out the rain-streaked window at the gray Manhattan streets.
We had just turned off 42nd Street onto a narrower commercial avenue near the East River when the world exploded into chaos.
A heavy, modified garbage truck suddenly blew through a red light at the intersection, accelerating straight toward our convoy.
"BRACE!" Enzo roared, reaching for his weapon.
The heavy truck broadsided the trailing security SUV with catastrophic force, flipping the two-ton vehicle into the air and crushing it against the side of a concrete building.
Before our driver could reverse the Maybach, a black delivery van swerved directly across the street in front of us, blocking our escape. The side doors of the van slid open, and four masked men in tactical vests armed with automatic rifles jumped out, opening immediate, deafening fire on our vehicle.
The sound of heavy-caliber bullets slamming into the armored glass sounded like a barrage of sledgehammers. The reinforced windows cracked into spiderweb patterns, holding the onslaught, but the sheer volume of gunfire was devastating.
"Stay down on the floor, Mrs. Rossi!" Enzo shouted, drawing his sidearm and kicking his door open, firing with pinpoint accuracy through the gap. The driver engaged the Maybach’s siren and attempted to ram the delivery van, but a high-caliber sniper round from an adjacent rooftop shattered the front axle, immobilizing us.
One of our security guards was struck down instantly as he exited. Enzo took a bullet to his left shoulder, grunting in pain as he retreated into the cabin, blood soaking his suit.
"They're flanking the vehicle!" Enzo cursed, reloading his pistol with one hand. "They have rooftop support! Boss is five minutes out, but we won't last five minutes!"
Through the cracked, blood-spattered windshield, I saw two gunmen approaching the rear passenger door, carrying heavy breaching charges designed to blow armored doors off their hinges.
Fear seized my throat, but beneath the fear, a white-hot fury erupted.
I survived seven bullets in a ballroom. I will not die trapped in the back of a car.
"Enzo, give me your spare piece!" I demanded, crawling over the center console.
"Mrs. Rossi, no—"
"GIVE IT TO ME!" I yelled.
Enzo, seeing the lethal fire in my eyes, didn't hesitate. He pulled a compact Glock 19 from his ankle holster and slapped it into my hand. "Safety is off. Ten rounds."
I racked the slide just as the first breacher reached for the rear door handle.
I didn't wait for him to plant the explosive. I kicked the door open with all my strength, hitting the gunman directly in the chest and knocking him off balance into the puddle of rain.
Before he could raise his assault rifle, I raised the Glock with both hands, leveled the sights at his chest, and pulled the trigger three times.
The deafening reports echoed through the alley. The gunman collapsed into the water, motionless.
The second gunman turned his weapon toward me, but before he could fire, the thunderous roar of an engine ripped through the street.
A customized matte-black Dodge Charger slammed straight through the roadblock at eighty miles per hour, crushing the second gunman against the delivery van in a horrific spray of metal and blood.
The driver’s door of the Charger was kicked open before the car had even completely stopped.
Dominic Rossi emerged like an avenging demon from the depths of hell.
He held a tactical shotgun in one hand and a heavy automatic pistol in the other. His eyes were entirely black with murderous, unhinged rage. Without breaking stride, he fired two devastating shotgun blasts into the remaining gunmen behind the van, eliminating them instantly. He turned toward the adjacent rooftop and fired four rapid, precision shots from his pistol; a sniper plummeted three stories down, crashing onto the asphalt below.
In less than twenty seconds, the entire strike team had been annihilated.
The street fell dead silent, save for the pouring rain and the hiss of steam rising from crushed radiators.
Dominic tossed his empty weapons aside and sprinted toward me. When he saw me standing in the rain, holding the smoking Glock in my trembling hands, blood splattered across my dress, his face went deathly pale.
"Maya!" he roared, reaching me in a single leap, grabbing my face in his large, shaking hands, frantically checking my body for wounds. "Are you hit? Where are you bleeding? Tell me!"
"I'm not hit, Dominic," I gasped, the adrenaline finally giving out as my knees buckled. "I'm not hit. The blood... it's not mine."
May you like
Dominic pulled me violently against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe. I could feel his heart hammering like a war drum against his ribs, his entire body trembling with an intensity of terror I had never seen in him before.
"I will kill them all," Dominic whispered into my wet hair, his voice vibrating with absolute, apocalyptic fury. "Every single person who planned this... I will burn their world to the ground."
Related Stories
