Chapter 8 - Fire in the Mountains
The first mortar shell hit the ridge two hundred yards behind the cabin at 2:00 PM, shaking the pine trees and sending a shower of earth and snow cascading down the slope.
Inside the cabin, Mara sat in the dimly lit concrete storm cellar, holding Sophia tightly against her chest while the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire echoed from above. The floorboards vibrated with every explosion.
Upstairs, Roman and Salvatore fought like cornered wolves. They had blown the bridge across the ravine behind the cabin, forcing Viktor Vance’s mercenaries to advance across an open clearing straight into the deadly arc of the defensive turrets and Roman's crossfire.
"Flank left! They’re pushing the tree line!" Salvatore shouted, firing a burst from his submachine gun before ducking behind a heavy oak pillar as a hail of bullets chewed through the living room windows.
Roman didn't answer. He was reloading his rifle with cold, mechanical precision, blood dripping from a shallow shrapnel cut across his forehead. He checked his watch. The local state police—bribed and loyal to the Valente family through years of careful alliances—were five minutes out. They just needed to hold the line until then.
Suddenly, the heavy oak front door splintered inward with a deafening crash.
Two mercenaries rushed through the smoke, weapons raised.
Salvatore dropped the first with a clean headshot, but the second swung his rifle around, aiming straight at Salvatore’s chest just as Salvatore’s weapon clicked on an empty magazine.
Before the mercenary could pull the trigger, a heavy brass fireplace poker flew across the room like a javelin, striking the man squarely in the throat. He staggered back, gasping for air, just as Roman closed the distance with terrifying speed, driving the butt of his rifle into the man's chest and sending him crashing through the shattered window.
Roman turned around, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing.
From the front porch stepped Viktor Vance himself—a tall, silver-haired syndicate boss holding a submachine gun, his face twisted into an ugly, triumphant sneer.
"End of the line, Roman," Viktor shouted over the settling dust. "You thought you could buy your way out of the underworld and play family man? The empire belongs to the Vanguard now!"
"You should have stayed in Chicago, Viktor," Roman’s voice cut through the room like shattered glass.
Viktor raised his weapon to fire—but before he could squeeze the trigger, the piercing wail of police sirens echoed up the mountain logging road, followed instantly by the roar of half a dozen squad cars slamming to a halt outside the cabin.
Spotlights blinded the porch. Megaphones crackled to life.
"Federal and State Police! Drop your weapons! You are completely surrounded!"
Viktor’s face drained of color. He looked from Roman to the open doorway where blue and red lights flashed against the snow. He realized in a single, agonizing fraction of a second that he had walked straight into a trap designed to draw him out into the open.
"You son of a bitch..." Viktor whispered, lowering his gun.
"Salvatore," Roman said quietly, gesturing with his head.
May you like
Salvatore stepped forward, bringing the butt of his rifle down hard across Viktor’s temple. The Chicago boss dropped like a stone onto the hardwood floor.
The siege was over.
