Chapter 9 - The Ambush at Montauk Point
The crack of suppressed sniper rifles tore through the oceanic gale with surgical precision.
*THWIP! THWIP!*
High-velocity rounds struck the two mercenaries guarding the boathouse doors, dropping them instantly onto the wet concrete.
Julian Delacroix threw himself behind a stack of industrial shipping crates, drawing an automatic pistol, firing wildly toward the lighthouse catwalk.
Giselle screamed, scrambling backward toward the generator bunker, her thumb pressing down violently on the red detonator switch.
Nothing happened.
Silvio’s tactical divers had breached the bunker’s sea-facing ventilation shaft thirty seconds earlier, severing the electronic wiring between the radio receiver and the explosive charges.
Realizing her detonator was dead, Giselle shrieked in manic fury, drew a chrome snub-nosed revolver from her jumpsuit, and kicked open the bunker door to execute Lily personally.
“NO!” I screamed.
I didn’t think about the bullets snapping through the air around me. I didn’t think about the freezing rain or the jagged rocks.
I sprinted across the concrete apron like an arrow released from a recurve bow.
I threw myself through the heavy doorway of the generator bunker just as Giselle raised her revolver toward Lily’s chest.
I tackled Giselle around the waist, our bodies colliding with concussive force, crashing onto the oily concrete floor of the bunker.
Giselle’s revolver fired, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly off a cast-iron generator flywheel with a shower of orange sparks.
Giselle fought like a rabid animal, her manicured nails clawing at my face, screaming profanities that echoed off the damp stone walls.
“You filthy maid!” she hissed, driving her knee into my ribs. “You ruined my wedding! You took my empire! I’ll tear your throat out!”
Pain flared through my side, but the memory of my mother, the image of Mama Nina’s wrinkled hands, and the sight of my terrified sister bound in chains ignited an ancient, unstoppable fury within my blood.
I caught Giselle’s wrist, twisting it violently until her fingers snapped back with a sharp crack, forcing her to drop the revolver.
I drove my forearm across her jaw, pinning her shoulders to the floor, drawing my compact Glock from my coat and pressing the cold steel barrel directly between her manicured eyebrows.
Giselle froze.
Her chest heaved in ragged, terrified gasps. Her eyes dilated until the whites showed completely, staring up at the twenty-six-year-old housekeeper who had just brought her to her knees.
“Don’t move,” I whispered, my voice completely devoid of tremor, colder than the winter Atlantic crashing outside. “Not a single breath.”
Outside, the gunfire ceased.
Footsteps echoed across the threshold of the bunker.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the storm, was Dante Caruso.
His submachine gun hung at his side, his hands coated in rain and soot, his dark eyes sweeping the room until they fell upon me.
Behind him, two of his tactical operators hurried forward, gently cutting the zip-ties from Lily’s wrists, wrapping my shivering sister in heavy thermal wool blankets.
“Clara!” Lily wept, throwing her arms around me as I scrambled up from the floor.
I held my sister tightly, kissing her damp hair, sobbing tears of pure, unadulterated relief. “You’re safe, Lily. You’re safe now. It’s over.”
Dante walked forward, looking down at Giselle, who lay cowering on the concrete floor, clutching her broken wrist.
“Pick her up,” Dante commanded Silvio.
Silvio hoisted Giselle to her feet, slapping heavy steel handcuffs around her wrists.
Dante stepped closer to her, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that chilled the air.
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“Your father is currently face-down in the mud outside, Giselle. Surrounded by Don Carmine’s arbiters. The Delacroix name has just been erased from the five families forever.”
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