Chapter 3 - The Siege at the Hudson
“Boss!”
Viktor bolted toward the heavy oak doors just as the brass handle spun frantically. Before he could reach the deadbolt, the door was slammed open from the outside, crashing against the interior wall with a deafening splinter of wood.
Three men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by reinforced Kevlar helmets and night-vision goggles, swarmed into the room. Each of them held suppressed submachine guns leveled directly at Gabriel Cross.
“Drop your weapons! Down on the floor, Cross!” the lead operative barked, his voice altered by a digital modulator.
Chaos erupted in the lounge.
Julian, Mateo, and the youngest boy, Noah, shrieked in terror, diving behind Claire’s armchair as Claire threw her body over them, shielding them with her own frame.
Gabriel didn't hesitate. With the explosive speed of a cornered panther, he lunged sideways, sweeping his foot across the ankle of the lead operative while simultaneously drawing a customized Sig Sauer P229 from a concealed shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.
Bang.
A silenced shot punched a clean, smoking hole through the silk curtains beside the window.
Viktor moved like a freight train, crashing into the second operative and slamming him against the marble-topped bar with enough force to shatter the liquor bottles stacked behind it.
“Get the boys out of here!” Gabriel roared over the deafening clatter of combat, firing two rapid shots into the ceiling to shatter the fire suppression sprinklers.
Water immediately began cascading down in a torrential downpour, soaking the expensive rugs, short-circuiting the recessed lighting, and plunging the room into a chaotic, misty gloom illuminated only by emergency strobe lights.
Serena screamed, crawling frantically toward the shattered exit before Viktor grabbed her by the collar of her ruined dress and dragged her behind the heavy mahogany sofa.
“Claire! Take the kids through the private service elevator behind the bar!” Gabriel shouted, dodging a burst of submachine gun fire that chewed up the wood of the armchair Claire had just occupied. “It leads directly to the subterranean loading dock! My driver, Marcus, is waiting in an armored Lincoln!”
“I’m not leaving you here!” Claire yelled back over the deafening roar of the sprinklers, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped animal. She pulled her three trembling boys up by their hands, their clothes soaked through with freezing water.
“Go!” Gabriel roared, his gray-green eyes locking onto hers through the artificial fog and falling water. There was no arrogance left in him—only raw, desperate devotion. “Protect my sons, Claire! I’ll handle this trash!”
Another bullet grazed the shoulder of Gabriel’s suit jacket, tearing the fabric and drawing a thin line of dark blood across his white shirt.
Claire didn't hesitate any longer. She grabbed Julian, Mateo, and Noah, shoving them through the hidden service door behind the bar just as Gabriel whirled around and delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to the jaw of the third operative.
The heavy steel service door slammed shut behind them, locking automatically with a heavy mechanical click.
They were in a narrow, dimly lit concrete stairwell that smelled of bleach and damp cardboard. Water dripped from the ceiling pipes, and the distant, muffled echoes of gunfire reverberated through the concrete walls.
“Keep running, boys! Don’t look back!” Claire cried, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she scooped Noah, the smallest, up into her arms, while holding tightly to Julian and Mateo’s hands with the other.
They sprinted down three flights of concrete stairs, their sneakers splashing through puddles of runoff water from the sprinkler system above.
When they burst through the heavy fire exit doors at the bottom of the stairwell, they found themselves in the vast, subterranean loading bay of the Hudson Center. The cavernous space was filled with idling delivery trucks, stacked crates, and shadows.
“Over here, Mrs. Cross!” a gruff, familiar voice shouted from the gloom.
A sleek, black armored Lincoln Navigator sat with its rear door wide open, its engine rumbling with quiet, immense power. Standing beside the vehicle was Marcus, Gabriel’s longtime head of security and personal driver, holding a tactical shotgun across his chest.
Claire bundled the boys into the backseat, climbing in right behind them and pulling the heavy armored door shut with a resounding thud.
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“Drive, Marcus! Now!” Claire commanded, her voice shaking but resolute.
Marcus slammed the SUV into gear, peeling out of the loading bay just as the overhead security gate began to descend. The Lincoln smashed through a plastic warning barrier and surged out into the cold, rainy Manhattan night.
