Chapter 7 - The Counterstrike
Z
The mahogany doors swung open without a knock, breaking the suffocating intimacy of the room.
Vincent stepped inside, his submachine gun replaced by a heavy tactical tablet. He took one look at Damian’s hand cradling Caitlyn’s jaw, did not react by so much as an eyebrow twitch, and stepped briskly to the center of the study.
“The secondary team has Victor Marrow pinned down,” Vincent said, his voice entirely professional. “He retreated to his primary private estate in the Hamptons. He thinks the snowstorm is keeping our vehicles grounded in Manhattan.”
Damian did not immediately pull his hand away from Caitlyn. He let his thumb rest against the pulse point beneath her ear for one deliberate second longer before letting his arm drop.
The cold air rushed back into the space between them, leaving Caitlyn breathless and disoriented.
“Is the helicopter prepped on the roof?” Damian asked, his voice instantly reverting to the icy, terrifying commander who ruled the underworld.
“Rotors are spinning,” Vincent confirmed. “We have four tactical operators suited up. Thermal imaging shows Marrow has twelve armed guards on the perimeter of the estate. He knows the ambush on the bypass failed. He’s preparing to burn his hard drives and board a private vessel docked in Montauk.”
Damian stood up from the sofa.
He didn't stumble this time. His body seemed to run entirely on pure, predatory adrenaline. He looked down at his ruined, bloodied shirt, stripped it off with a single violent tear, and pulled a fresh, black tactical turtleneck from the credenza behind his desk. He pulled it over his broad, scarred torso, wincing only slightly as the fabric compressed the bandaged wound on his arm.
He strapped a custom leather holster across his chest, sliding a silenced SIG Sauer into the mold with a sharp, mechanical click.
Then he looked at Caitlyn.
She was still on her knees on the floor, surrounded by rolls of medical gauze, antiseptic bottles, and the dark stains of his blood.
“Get up,” Damian ordered softly.
She scrambled to her feet, brushing her trousers off, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What are you going to do?”
“I told those Chicago executives that ruin was survivable,” Damian said, pulling on a heavy, black combat coat lined with shearling. “I lied.”
He walked toward her, stopping inches away. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an encrypted satellite phone, and placed it directly into her palm.
“Noah is already being moved,” Damian told her, his voice low and steady. “A medical transport helicopter lifted him from St. Jude’s ten minutes ago. He is currently en route to a private medical suite on the 35th floor of this building. He will be here before midnight, under the care of three trauma neurologists.”
Tears sprang into Caitlyn’s eyes again, but this time, they were born of pure, staggering relief. “Damian…”
“You will stay here with Vincent’s reserve squad,” he continued, ignoring the emotion in her voice. “This phone is connected directly to my tactical frequency. If you hear my voice, everything is under control. If you hear static for more than forty-five minutes… you take Noah, you open the wall safe, you take the passports and the bearer bonds, and you get on the transport jet waiting at Teterboro.”
“No,” she whispered, grabbing the lapel of his heavy coat.
The gesture was entirely instinctive, completely devoid of the fear that had governed her for two years. She clutched the heavy wool with both hands, looking up into his dark, ruthless eyes.
“Don't tell me that,” she said, her voice fierce. “You come back here. You hear me? You come back to this office.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of Damian’s mouth. It was the first time in two years Caitlyn had ever seen him smile, and it transformed his face from a mask of stone into something terrifyingly beautiful.
“You’re giving me orders now, Elmore?” he murmured.
“I am.”
Damian reached up, his gloved fingers wrapping around her hands where they gripped his coat. He gently squeezed her fingers, pressing them against the hard Kevlar beneath the wool.
“Then I’ll be back for breakfast. Black coffee. No sugar. Three inches from the right edge of my desk.”
He turned away before she could reply.
“Vincent. Move out.”
The two men vanished down the private corridor toward the roof access stairs. Seconds later, the deep, rhythmic thrum of heavy helicopter blades vibrated through the reinforced glass of the penthouse windows, shaking the dust from the ceiling fixtures before fading into the howling whiteout of the blizzard.
Caitlyn stood in the center of the vast, silent study, holding the satellite phone against her chest.
She was covered in mafia blood. Her hands smelled of Betadine and gunpowder. Her brother was flying through a blizzard toward Manhattan, and the man who owned the city was flying through that same blizzard with an assault team to execute a rival syndicate.
She looked down at her desk in the anteroom.
The double monitors were still glowing. The corporate balance sheets were still waiting.
Slowly, deliberately, Caitlyn walked over to her chair and sat down. She pulled a fresh notepad toward her, uncapped her pen, and began drafting the emergency crisis press release for Hamilton Holdings.
May you like
She was Damian Hamilton’s shadow.
And she wasn't hiding anymore.
