Chapter 62 - The Crimson Reticle
The red laser burned against Emma’s forehead like an ember of pure ice.
She did not flinch. Survival in the underbelly of Chicago had taught her that hesitation killed, but panic killed faster. Across the shattered penthouse floor, glass fragments glittered like fallen stars under the pre-dawn sky, shivering as the freezing wind off Lake Michigan howled through the ruined panoramic frame.
Vincent didn’t shout. He didn’t bargain. In a motion so instantaneous it defied human biology, he lunged across the blood-slicked mahogany. His broad frame collided with Emma, wrapping an arm around her waist and hurling her downward behind the reinforced marble balustrade of the interior mezzanine.
A suppressed rifle cracked through the freezing air—*thwip*.
The high-caliber round missed Emma’s skull by a fraction of an inch, biting savagely into the solid oak column behind her and exploding it into jagged splinters.
A second later, another muffled percussion echoed from the rooftop across the street. Senator Marcus Vance never even had time to scream. The laser dot on his forehead flashed, and an armor-piercing round tore through his skull, throwing his limp body backward across the conference table, overturning crystal carafes and showering the mahogany in arterial crimson.
"Down! Keep your head down!" Vincent commanded, his voice a gravelly, controlled roar directly against Emma’s ear. He pinned her flat against the reinforced marble with the full weight of his torso, effectively shielding her body with his own Kevlar-lined suit jacket.
The speakerphone on the floor—miraculously intact amidst the carnage—hummed with distorted static.
"Messy, Vincent," the cold, aristocratic woman’s voice purred through the speaker. "Marcus was getting tiresome anyway. But you see our range. You see our precision. You have four hours until sunrise. If you do not stand on the slag heap of Foundry Nine in Gary with the iron lockbox, the next bullet won't miss Miss Ward."
*Click.* The line died.
Around them, the penthouse went eerily quiet, save for the howling gale ripping through the shattered glass.
"Vincent," Emma whispered, her breath coming in shallow, frosty gasps against his lapel. She could feel the violent pounding of his heart against her ribs, steady and lethal like an engine of war. "Who was that?"
Vincent pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His jaw was set like carved granite, his dark eyes burning with an unholy fire she had never seen before. "The people who murdered my father," he said quietly. "And the people who just made the fatal mistake of threatening you."
Footsteps pounded on the lower stairs. Mateo and four heavily armed Moretti vanguard operators burst through the double doors, submachine guns raised, their tactical goggles sweeping the perimeter.
"Perimeter breach on the north rooftop!" Mateo barked into his comms. "Smoke the floor! Move the principal!"
Dense canisters of white phosphorus-blocking smoke hissed across the broken penthouse, blinding the thermal optics of the snipers across the bay.
May you like
Vincent hauled Emma to her feet, his fingers locked around her wrist like bands of cold steel. "We’re leaving," he said, turning toward the private service lift. "The war in Chicago is over. Now we settle the debt that started thirty years ago."
***
