Chapter 8 - THE TRAP AT THE DOCKS
“No,” I said.
My fingers tightened around the brass key.
Then I threw it onto the wet rocks between us.
It bounced into a puddle with a faint splash.
Dominic stared at the key, then at me.
“Mia, this isn't a debate,” he snapped.
“I am not running away on a motorcycle while you get slaughtered on a hill,” I said.
My voice was steady.
The trembling in my hands had stopped completely.
“You told me I was in a cage for eight months.”
“If I run now, I’m just choosing a different cage.”
Dominic looked at me as though seeing me for the first time.
The rain washed the soot from his forehead, streaking his rugged jaw.
“He has twelve men, Mia,” Dominic said quietly.
“And they think you’re trapped in that burning house,” I replied.
I pointed toward the access road below.
“Look at their deployment.”
Dominic’s eyes flickered down the slope.
His tactical instincts took over.
Bianchi’s men were clustered around the burning front porch, firing into the smoke.
Only two guards were posted near the fuel tanker truck parked beside their command SUV.
“The tanker carries aviation fuel for the helicopter,” Dominic murmured, his gaze narrowing.
“Arthur Thorne’s emergency cache,” I deduced.
“There’s an underground valve control in the shed behind us.”
A slow, dangerous smile crept across Dominic’s lips.
“You really are an appraiser,” he whispered.
“You notice the load points.”
“I notice the things men like you ignore because you’re too busy shooting each other,” I countered.
Dominic reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a flare gun.
“Can you open the auxiliary release valve in the shed?”
“Give me two minutes,” I said.
I didn't wait for his permission.
I scrambled through the brush toward the weathered wooden shed sixty yards up the ridge.
The padlock on the shed door was rusted.
I grabbed a heavy iron pry bar leaning against the woodpile and jammed it into the hasp.
I threw my entire weight against the metal.
The rusted screws groaned.
With a sharp crack, the lock snapped free.
Inside, the shed was filled with old logging tools, coiled chains, and an industrial pump station.
A massive yellow wheel was bolted to a concrete riser in the floor: MAIN FUEL LINE — GRAVITY FEED.
I grabbed the wheel with both hands.
It was frozen with rust.
Down the hill, gunfire intensified as Dominic opened fire from the boulder to draw their attention.
His pistol barked three times.
A mercenary dropped near the front gate.
“He’s on the ridge!” Vincent’s voice shrieked. “Flank him! Flank him now!”
Bullets chipped chunks of granite off the boulder where Dominic was pinned.
I gritted my teeth.
I planted my boots against the concrete base, throwing every ounce of strength into my shoulders.
Turn, damn you!
The iron wheel groaned.
It yielded an inch.
Then another.
With a metallic screech, the valve spun wide open.
Through the iron grate in the floor, I heard the roar of hundreds of gallons of high-octane fuel surging down the underground pipes toward the valley.
Down the slope, fuel erupted from the overflow nozzles behind the parked vehicles.
A river of clear, pungent gasoline flooded the gravel driveway, pooling beneath Bianchi’s armored SUVs.
I sprinted back to the edge of the ridge.
“Dominic! Now!” I screamed.
Dominic leaned out from behind the boulder.
He raised the flare gun and pulled the trigger.
A brilliant crimson phosphorous projectile arced through the rainy sky.
It plunged straight into the pool of fuel beneath the command SUV.
The world vanished into a wall of blinding orange fire.
The explosion roared like a thunderclap, vibrating the earth beneath our feet.
A shockwave of scorching heat washed up the ridge, blowing rain and pine needles into our faces.
Three vehicles detonated in rapid succession.
Screams echoed through the valley as Bianchi’s mercenaries scattered into the burning woods.
Gabriel Bianchi stumbled out of the smoke, his coat on fire, collapsing into the mud.
Through the roaring inferno, one vehicle survived.
A black pickup truck spun around on the gravel, its tires smoking, and tore down the logging road toward the highway.
Behind the wheel was Vincent.
Dominic stepped out from behind the boulder, his smoking flare gun lowered.
He looked down at the burning wreckage.
Then he turned to me.
He reached out, his soot-stained hand catching mine.
He pulled me against his chest.
His arms wrapped around my waist with a crushing, desperate strength.
I buried my face in his wet wool coat, breathing in the scent of cedar, smoke, and survival.
“You’re insane, Mia,” he whispered against my hair.
“I learned from the best,” I breathed against his neck.
Behind us, Leo emerged from the treeline, holding an assault rifle and grinning through his bloody teeth.
“Truck is toast, boss,” Leo shouted over the crackle of flames.
“Where is Vincent going?” I asked, pulling back to look at Dominic.
Dominic’s gray eyes were ice.
“He’s heading to Brooklyn.”
“The Red Hook terminal.”
“The freighter leaves for Panama at midnight.”
May you like
Dominic loaded a fresh magazine into his sidearm.
“It’s time to settle the family account.”
