Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Ambush and the Night of Fire
At 2:45 AM, the sprawling, thirty-acre Moretti estate was plunged into complete, artificial darkness.
The Rossi strike team had severed the main municipal power lines at the junction box two miles down the highway, expecting the estate’s backup generators to take thirty seconds to engage.
What they didn't know was that our compound was running on an independent, off-grid subterranean solar battery network.
Through our night-vision optics, the fifteen heavily armed Rossi mercenaries wearing black tactical gear and Kevlar vests were illuminated like targets on a firing range as they breached the North Gate perimeter fence.
THWIP. THWIP. THWIP.
Suppressed sniper rounds from the estate’s rooftop towers eliminated the lead three mercenaries before their boots even touched the manicured grass.
The courtyard erupted into violent, deafening chaos.
Automatic gunfire lit up the dark autumn night with blinding muzzle flashes.
Dominic and eight of our elite tactical operators, armed with suppressed submachine guns, executed a classic military flanking maneuver, pinning the remaining mercenaries in the crossfire between the tennis courts and the stone fountain.
Standing behind the reinforced stone balustrade of the second-floor terrace, I raised my tactical rifle.
BANG. BANG.
Two mercenaries attempting to plant thermal breaching charges against the service entrance dropped instantly to the flagstones.
Within eight minutes, fourteen of the fifteen attackers lay dead or incapacitated on the lawn.
The final mercenary—a towering Eastern European named Grigori, who served as Victor Rossi’s personal executioner—was pinned behind the marble statue of the archangel Michael, clutching a shattered shoulder.
Dominic walked forward, kicking Grigori’s rifle away, shoving the barrel of his Glock directly against the man’s forehead.
“Don't shoot him, Dominic,” I commanded, walking down the sweeping grand staircase into the smoking courtyard.
I stopped three feet from the bleeding mercenary.
Grigori looked up at me through the smoke and cordite, spitting blood onto the grass, a malicious, mocking sneer on his lips.
“You’re too late, Moretti,” Grigori rasped in a thick accent. “Victor isn't even in the city. He’s aboard his private yacht at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, preparing to sail for international waters with thirty million of your shipping bonds!”
I crouched down, grabbing Grigori by the hair, forcing his head back.
“Give me Victor’s vessel registration number,” I said, my voice dead, flat, and chillingly calm.
Grigori laughed. “Go to hell, Moretti.”
I didn't argue. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small tactical syringe containing a single dose of high-concentration sodium pentothal—the military truth serum Dominic kept in the armory.
I jammed the needle directly into the carotid artery of Grigori’s neck.
Within thirty seconds, Grigori’s pupils dilated, his muscles went slack, and his tongue loosened completely.
“The Black Sea Pearl,” Grigori muttered in a robotic daze. “Slip 42, Brooklyn Navy Yard. Victor leaves at four-thirty AM.”
May you like
I stood up, stepped back, and looked at Dominic.
“Take ten men,” I ordered, racking my Kimber .45. “We’re taking the speedboats across the harbor. Tonight, Victor Rossi pays for every single tear shed over my son’s empty grave.”
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