Chapter 3 - THE HIGHWAY TO BEDFORD
Dante moved before the glass hit the pavement.
His arm locked around Elena’s waist, hauling her down behind the granite pillar of the gatehouse.
The impact drove the wind from her lungs.
Crack. Crack.
Two more rounds tore into the stone, gouging fist-sized chunks of masonry into the dark.
The security guard inside the gatehouse hit the alarm toggle.
A low, wailing siren began to pulse across the estate grounds.
“Head down,” Dante commanded.
He didn't draw a gun.
He pulled a small radio from his belt.
“Gate team. Suppress the tree line. Do not pursue.”
“Sir, we have two black SUVs at the perimeter,” a voice crackled back.
“Let them hit the gate,” Dante said.
“Bring the armored Continental to the service alley.”
Dante looked down at Elena.
She was pressed against the wet stone, her hair plastered to her cheeks.
Her hands were shaking, but she wasn't crying.
She was staring at the suitcase lying on its side five feet away in the open driveway.
Her father’s blue notebook had spilled out onto the wet gravel.
Its taped cover was already dark with rain.
She moved toward it.
Dante caught her wrist with a grip like steel.
“Elena, no.”
“His notes,” she choked out.
“He wrote down every ship number from that dock!”
Dante looked at the book.
He looked at the tree line where muzzle flashes strobed through the hemlocks.
Without a word, he lunged across the exposed driveway.
He swept the book off the wet gravel, grabbed her suitcase, and threw himself back behind the pillar just as a bullet sparked off the iron gate hinge.
He shoved the wet notebook inside his vest, pressing it against his ribs.
“Satisfied?” he growled.
His shirt was soaked.
A dark scrape bled across his right knuckle.
Elena stared at the blood on his skin.
“You’re crazy,” she whispered.
“You’re stubborn,” he countered.
The low rumble of a heavy engine cut through the gunfire.
An armored black Continental slammed to a halt at the edge of the service drive, its passenger door swinging open.
Dante shoved her into the rear seat first, throwing the suitcase after her.
He vaulted in beside her, slamming the heavy reinforced door.
Thud-thud-thud.
Three rounds flattened against the ballistic glass, leaving white circular fractures that held firm.
The driver, an older man with graying temples named Paul, floored the gas.
The Continental tore over the curb, plowing through the ornamental hedges and launching onto the secondary access road.
Elena turned in the leather seat, staring out the back window.
The two pursuing SUVs burst through the estate’s outer wooden fence, sliding onto the asphalt in pursuit.
“Who are they, Dante?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Caldwell’s clean-up crew,” Dante said.
He pulled a clean linen cloth from the center console and handed it to her.
“Dry your face.”
She took the cloth, but her eyes never left his.
“Vanessa did this?”
“Vanessa’s father,” Dante said.
He leaned back against the headrest, pulling the wet blue notebook from his vest.
He opened the waterlogged pages with careful fingers.
The ink was faded, but the neat, handwritten numbers were still legible.
Vessel: Atlantic Star.
Manifest: Industrial Machinery.
Actual Cargo: Unregistered Crates, Pier 4.
Inspector: T. Brooks (Refused Signature).
Dante’s thumb traced her father’s handwriting.
“Your father didn't just refuse to sign,” Dante said quietly.
“He took photographs of the crates.”
Elena looked up sharply.
“There were no photographs in our apartment.”
“No,” Dante said.
“Because he gave them to Mrs. Russo.”
Elena felt the air leave her chest.
“The housekeeper?”
“Your mother’s sister,” Dante revealed.
Elena’s vision blurred.
Her hands dropped into her lap.
“Mrs. Russo is my aunt?”
“She changed her name after your father was killed,” Dante said.
“She took a position in my household six years ago to watch the people who ordered the hit.”
“And you knew?”
“I hired her because of it,” Dante said.
The car took a violent turn onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, throwing Elena against Dante’s shoulder.
He didn't pull away.
His arm braced her against the cornering force.
Paul’s voice came from the front seat, calm but tense:
“Mr. Moretti. The lead SUV is matching our speed.”
“They’re coming up on the passenger side.”
Dante looked out Elena’s window.
A black Ford Expedition pulled alongside them at eighty miles per hour.
The passenger window rolled down.
A man in a tactical mask raised a short-barreled shotgun.
Dante didn't duck.
He reached under his seat and pulled an iron release lever.
May you like
“Paul,” Dante said calmly.
“Brake check.”
