Chapter 57 - Blood on the Surface
The door to the electrical room burst open with a crash.
Emma scrambled backward, curling into a defensive ball against an industrial transformer unit, expecting Matteo’s executioners. But the men entering were not wearing private tactical gear.
They wore gray windbreakers with bold yellow lettering across their backs: *FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.*
Leading them was an older man with silver hair cut high and tight, holding an unholstered service pistol, his eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. Behind him were six tactical agents with shotguns and ballistic shields.
"Secure the perimeter! Cut the main conduit!" the lead man barked, his voice carrying the authority of thirty years in federal service. Then his eyes fell upon Emma Ward, huddled in the corner, soaked in river muck, wearing Vincent Moretti’s oversized overcoat.
He lowered his weapon instantly. "Emma Ward?"
Emma stared at him through wild, disheveled hair, her chest hitching in breathless sobs. "Who are you?"
"Special Agent Miller," the man said, kneeling beside her and pulling a radio from his vest. "Stand down, team! We have the witness! Call the medic unit to the west dock!" He looked at Emma with profound relief. "Where is Moretti? He sent the emergency transponder signal from this sector four minutes ago."
Emma pointed a trembling, bloodstained finger toward the bubbling, flooded utility hatch. "He’s down there... The tunnel collapsed. The river... the river came in."
Miller cursed under his breath, lunging to the edge of the shaft. He peered down into the churning, murky water, his face hardening into granite. "He lured them into the river breach," Miller muttered to himself, understanding the calculation in an instant. "He knew the retaining wall would give."
"Is he dead?" Emma choked out, grabbing Miller’s sleeve with frantic desperation. "Tell me he’s not dead!"
Before Miller could answer, the surface of the boiling water in the shaft broke with a violent splash.
A hand—scarred, bloodied, and dripping with black oil—shot out of the water, clamping onto the steel lip of the floor with crushing strength.
Emma gasped, scrambling forward on her knees.
Vincent Moretti hauled himself out of the flooded abyss. His shirt was shredded across his ribs, displaying deep lacerations from flying brick shrapnel. His face was pale from the freezing temperature of the water, and blood trickled from a wound near his hairline, mixing with the river mud.
In his left hand, he held the dripping, water-resistant tactical hard drive.
He threw the drive onto the concrete floor before Miller’s boots, then rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps of fresh air.
Emma didn't hesitate. She threw her arms around him, burying her face into his soaked, freezing shoulder, heedless of the oil, the blood, or the federal agents surrounding them. She was shaking so violently that her teeth clicked together, her tears soaking into his collar. "You're alive... you're alive..."
Vincent’s breath was shallow, his body shuddering against the shock of hypothermia, but his right hand slowly lifted from the floor, resting firmly on the back of Emma’s head, holding her close against his chest.
"I told you," he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper, yet completely steady. "Amateurs."
Miller picked up the hard drive, inspecting the sealed encasing with awe. "Matteo?"
May you like
Vincent closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his expression devoid of remorse. "At the bottom of the Adams Street culvert. Along with Vance’s cleanup crew."
***
