Chapter 3 - BLOOD ON THE SAND
The flashlight beam cut through the rain.
It swept over the wet granite.
Clara threw herself into the narrow crevice between two jagged boulders.
She shielded the boys with her entire torso.
Her back took the impact of the cold, wet rock.
Oliver’s cries were muffled against her neck.
“Did you hear that?” Victoria hissed from the dock.
Her cigarette flared orange in the wind.
“Wind on the rocks,” Briggs answered.
His voice was tense.
“No,” Victoria snapped, stepping closer to the wooden ramp.
“That was a baby crying.”
Briggs cocked the bolt of his submachine gun.
The metallic click was crisp against the sound of breaking waves.
“The nursery went up ten minutes ago,” Briggs said.
“Nobody survived that floor.”
“Go check the cove,” Victoria ordered.
Her voice had gone sharp and vicious.
“If those brats are breathing, Salvatore won't wire the second half.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Cold rainwater pooled around her bare feet.
Her muscles burned from holding forty pounds of dead weight for so long.
Briggs’s heavy boots crunched across the wet gravel.
He was thirty feet away.
Then twenty.
The yellow circle of his flashlight crawled up the face of the boulder.
Clara held her breath.
Her pulse roared in her ears like a freight train.
She looked down at Owen.
The infant’s wide, dark eyes stared up into hers in the gloom.
He didn't make a sound.
It was as if he understood that a single gasp meant death.
Briggs stopped five feet from the crevice.
The barrel of his weapon poked around the edge of the stone.
Clara braced herself.
She prepared to throw her body over both children when the bullets came.
Then, from the top of the cliff, twin beams of high-intensity xenon lights erupted.
The headlights tore through the rain like lightning.
The roar of twin-turbo V8 engines drowned out the Atlantic surf.
Tires screamed on wet asphalt above.
Four black armored SUVs slammed through the burning estate gates.
Briggs spun around, dropping his flashlight into the sand.
“He’s back,” Briggs choked out.
Panic stripped every ounce of authority from his voice.
“Who?” Victoria screamed from the dock.
“Costello!”
A deafening sniper shot cracked from the cliff edge.
The windshield of the offshore speedboat shattered into a thousand crystal fragments.
Victoria shrieked, dropping her leather duffel bag onto the wet planks.
Diamonds and velvet jewelry boxes spilled across the wood.
“Briggs! Start the boat!” she shrieked.
A second shot took Briggs through the right shoulder.
He spun violently, collapsing into the shallow surf with a scream.
Clara peeked around the granite rock.
At the top of the cliff path, a tall figure stepped out of the lead SUV.
Damian Costello.
He wore no coat against the freezing rain.
His black tailored dress shirt was soaked flat against his broad shoulders.
In his right hand, he held a long-barreled automatic rifle.
His face was carved out of cold, merciless granite.
He looked down at the burning estate.
Then down at the dock.
He descended the stone cliff stairs with the steady, lethal stride of an executioner.
Behind him moved eight heavily armed men in black tactical gear.
Victoria fell to her knees on the dock, sobbing hysterically.
“Damian! Oh God, Damian!”
Her voice was full of theatrical horror.
“They came out of nowhere! They set fire to the house!”
Damian reached the wooden dock.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't offer a hand.
He walked past her, his boots thudding heavily against the timber.
He looked into the burning ruins of the east wing fifty feet above.
“Where are my sons?” Damian asked.
His voice was quiet.
It was the quiet that comes before a hurricane strikes land.
Victoria wiped rain and fake tears from her face.
“I tried, Damian! I tried so hard to reach the nursery!”
She reached out to touch the hem of his trousers.
“The stairs collapsed! The fire took them! They’re gone, Damian!”
Damian looked down at her.
His eyes were completely black with grief and fury.
He slowly raised the barrel of his rifle.
He leveled it directly at his wife’s forehead.
“You’re lying, Victoria,” Damian whispered.
From the darkness of the rocks, Clara found her voice.
“Mr. Costello!”
Her voice broke through the wind.
Damian froze.
The rifle barrel stayed steady, but his head snapped toward the rocks.
Clara stepped out from between the boulders into the pouring rain.
Her clothes were soaked in soot and blood.
Her bare feet were bleeding from the sharp mussel shells.
And in her arms, wrapped tightly against her chest, were Oliver and Owen.
Both boys were crying now.
Loud.
Strong.
Alive.
Damian lowered his weapon.
For the first time in his ruthless life, the Mafia King of Boston looked shattered.
May you like
He dropped his rifle into the sand.
He took three long, running strides across the wet beach toward Clara.
