Chapter 8 - The Infiltration Through the Flooded Undercroft Tunnels
The tunnel was a claustrophobic nightmare of crumbling brick and dripping ceiling pipes. The freezing sludge reached past our ankles, numbing our feet within minutes as we crawled through the darkness. Bruno moved ten paces ahead, his slate-gray coat blending perfectly into the shadows, pausing every twenty feet to sniff the heavy, stagnant air before giving a soft tail-thump against the brickwork to signal us forward.
Fifty yards in, the tunnel opened into the lower foundation vault beneath the cathedral’s northern transept.
Through the thick stone arches ahead, we could hear the muffled sounds of the dinner taking place sixty feet above: the clinking of champagne flutes, the murmur of two hundred wealthy, dangerous men laughing over expensive steaks, and the faint, booming resonance of the opening speeches echoing down the ventilation shafts.
And right below them, occupying the center of the subterranean wine vault, were four massive commercial refrigeration units painted with the logo of an upscale catering company.
Standing around the units were eight men in full black tactical gear, armed with short-barreled assault rifles, checking digital timers attached to thick blocks of gray C4 explosive lining the structural pillars.
Standing on an elevated iron catwalk above them, holding a detonator console with a digital countdown clock glowing 14:22, was Victor Vance.
Beside Vance stood Marco Ricci.
Marco was pacing nervously, a glass of scotch shaking in his hand, his eyes darting toward the stone staircase leading up to the banquet hall.
"Are you sure the blast radius will direct everything upward?" Marco’s voice drifted down from the catwalk, high-pitched and strained with terror. "If the foundation collapses sideways, the north tower will fall into the street and crush the convoy we have waiting."
"Relax, Ricci," Vance replied, his voice flat and robotic, devoid of any human emotion. He was a tall, angular man with a shaved head and a brutal, jagged scar that ran from his ear down through the serpent tattoo on his neck. "The shaped charges are angled at forty-five degrees. The ceiling will blow into the hall, dropping the floor of the nave straight into this basement. The entire commission will be erased in less than two seconds. By the time emergency services dig through the rubble tomorrow morning, your bank accounts in the Caymans will be active and my security firm will hold the private contracts for the entire Eastern Seaboard."
"And Salvatore?" Marco asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "His body wasn't at the house."
"Salvatore Leone is an old relic chasing ghosts in Queens," Vance sneered, tapping the screen of the detonator. "My men in Corona have already handled him. By now, the old bastard and his mutt are lying in the mud of a rail yard."
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From the shadows behind the stone pillar, Bruno let out a sound that wasn't a growl—it was a low, primeval promise of absolute slaughter.
"Vance!" I stepped out from the darkness into the center of the vault, my .45 raised and leveled directly at the center of the mercenary commander’s chest. "You should have checked the body before you bought the crown."
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