Chapter 33 - The Siege Outside the Sanctuary
Above ground, St. Patrick’s Cathedral was no longer a place of holy silence. It was a war zone.
Armored NYPD tactical vans choked Fifth Avenue, their red and blue strobes painting the falling snow in flashing strokes of crimson and cobalt. Federal agents in heavy Kevlar vests and riot gear formed a tight perimeter around the massive oak doors, while police snipers crouched on the limestone ledges of neighboring skyscrapers, their rifle scopes trained on every shadow.
Viktor stood near the shattered entrance of the nave, a encrypted satellite phone pressed hard against his ear. His tactical coat was dusted with snow, and his face was carved from granite.
"Status?" Viktor barked into the receiver.
*“We’ve intercepted encrypted radio chatter from three separate black SUVs heading down Madison Avenue,”* a voice crackled through the earpiece—one of Viktor’s elite scouts monitoring the city grid. *“Not police. Not federal. Private contractor uniforms. Elite international mercenaries—the Blackwood Syndicate.”*
Viktor’s eyes narrowed. "Blackwood? They operate exclusively in Eastern Europe and the Middle East. What are they doing in Manhattan?"
*“They aren't here for the police, commander. They’re here for the cathedral. They’ve got heavy ordnance—RPG launchers and thermal breach charges. ETA thirty seconds.”*
"Fall back to the interior!" Viktor roared, turning to the four Serrano loyalists who had surrendered earlier. "Grab your rifles! If those mercenaries breach the doors, nobody leaves this block alive!"
The loyalists didn't hesitate. Survival instincts trumped family feuds when faced with international contractors known for taking no prisoners. They scrambled behind the heavy stone baptismal fonts and marble pillars, racking the bolts of their assault rifles just as the first deafening roar echoed from the street outside.
*BOOM.*
The massive, centuries-old oak doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral exploded inward in a storm of splintered timber, iron bolts, and blinding white smoke. Shards of stained glass rained down from the rose window above like a glittering guillotine blade.
Through the smoke, figures in matte-black tactical gear poured into the nave. They moved with terrifying synchronization, no wasted motion, their suppressors raised and spitting silent, deadly streams of high-velocity rounds.
"Fire!" Viktor screamed.
The cathedral erupted into a deafening symphony of automatic gunfire. Tracer rounds streaked through the freezing air, shattering marble angels and riddling the pews with splinters. Viktor fired his submachine gun from behind a stone pillar, dropping two Blackwood mercenaries before they could even hit cover.
A third mercenary lunged forward, leveling a shoulder-fired rocket launcher directly at the floor mosaic—right above the subterranean vault hatch where Dante and Clara were trapped.
"No you don't!" one of the Serrano loyalists roared, leaping out from cover and tackling the mercenary mid-stride just as the rocket fired.
The rocket went wide, screaming through the open roof and detonating against the upper clerestory, bringing down a massive section of stone vaulting that buried both men beneath tons of rubble.
Viktor reloaded his weapon with frantic speed, his heart pounding against his ribs. The mercenaries were pushing deeper into the nave, their suppression fire pinning the defenders down behind the altar steps.
And then, from the smoking ruins of the blown-out front doors, a single figure stepped through the haze.
He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat, a silver scarf wrapped casually around his neck, and held a silver-headed cane with casual elegance. It was Julian Vance—the billionaire tech mogul and secretive board member of the global syndicate who had supposedly been neutralized weeks ago.
Julian smiled, his pale eyes gleaming in the flickering strobe light of the police cruisers outside. He raised his cane, tapping the marble floor lightly.
"Cease fire," Julian called out, his smooth, cultured voice carrying effortlessly over the ringing ears of the survivors.
The mercenaries instantly lowered their weapons.
Viktor stepped out from behind his pillar, his submachine gun raised and locked on Julian’s chest. "You're dead. Dante put a bullet through your chest in Venice."
May you like
Julian laughed softly, stepping over a fallen stone angel. "Venice was a rehearsal, Commander. And now, the curtain is rising on the real performance. Tell me... is Dante enjoying his new tomb?"
***
