Chapter 6 - The Interrogation in the Iron Vault
Before our convoy departed for the eastern tip of Long Island, Dante made one final, critical stop.
We descended once more into the estate’s subterranean wing, turning down the west corridor toward the reinforced iron vault where the wounded Delacroix mercenary from the music alcove was being held.
The mercenary, a French contractor named Luc, was strapped into a heavy steel interrogation chair bolted to the concrete floor. His shoulder was roughly bandaged, blood seeping through the gauze, his eyes darting frantically toward the heavy iron door as Dante and I entered.
Dante pulled up a wooden chair, turned it backward, and sat down less than two paces from the prisoner.
He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t shout. He simply sat there, radiating an aura of cold, absolute inevitability that made the hardened soldier shiver in his seat.
“You served three tours in Mali with the Legion, Luc,” Dante said softly, reciting the man’s military record from memory. “You have a wife and two daughters living in an apartment outside Marseille.”
Luc’s eyes widened in sheer horror. “How... how do you know that?”
“I know everything about every man who steps onto my land,” Dante replied, his voice smooth as velvet. “Julian Delacroix offered you fifty thousand dollars to breach my foyer tonight. Tell me: did Julian mention that the High Commission has just issued an execution warrant against his entire bloodline?”
Luc swallowed hard, his throat working dryly. “He... he said it was an internal domestic dispute. He said you were breaking a marriage pact.”
“Julian murdered my mother,” Dante said flatly. “And right now, his daughter is holding an innocent sick girl at Montauk Point. If you give me the tactical frequencies, the perimeter minefield layout, and the sniper coordinates for that lighthouse, I will ensure fifty thousand dollars is transferred to your wife in Marseille, and you will walk onto a cargo freighter to France by sunrise.”
Dante leaned forward, his obsidian eyes narrowing into daggers.
“If you lie to me for one second, I will let Silvio finish what my submachine gun started.”
Luc didn’t hesitate. The loyalty bought with dirty money crumbled instantly before the terrifying reality of Dante Caruso’s wrath.
“The lighthouse is guarded by twelve men,” Luc stammered rapidly. “Two snipers are stationed on the catwalk around the lantern room, armed with thermal scopes. The ground team is funneled through the boathouse because the northern cliffs are rigged with directional antipersonnel mines.”
“Where is the girl?” I demanded, stepping into the light, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“In the old generator bunker beneath the keeper’s quarters,” Luc answered, looking directly at me. “Giselle is with her. Giselle has a detonator wired to the medical oxygen tanks. If your convoy breaches the front gate, Giselle will blow the bunker before you reach the door.”
Dante stood up, turning to Silvio. “Take down the radio frequencies. Provide Luc with clean water and medical care. If his intelligence proves accurate at Montauk, put him on the freighter.”
“Right away, boss,” Silvio nodded.
Dante turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders.
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“We know the layout now, Clara,” Dante said, his voice filled with fierce, quiet confidence. “We don’t breach the front gate. We take the sea.”
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