Chapter 6 - Blood on the Palisades
The hit came three miles south of the George Washington Bridge.
We were in the reinforced Maybach, Marcus driving, rain lashing against the tinted ballistic glass in violent sheets. Manhattan’s skyline was disappearing behind us, swallowed by the jagged black silhouette of the New Jersey Palisades.
"He won't let that insult stand, boss," Marcus said, his eyes shifting constantly between the rearview mirrors. "Julian has three crews on standby in Weehawken. He’s impulsive and stupid."
"Let him come," Dominic replied. He had shed his tuxedo jacket, sitting in his vest and rolled-up sleeves. His left arm was draped across the leather seat behind my shoulders, not touching me, but hovering like a phantom boundary. "Julian has spent ten years hiding behind his father's reputation. Out here in the dark, he has nothing."
"Dominic," I said, looking out the back window.
Through the mist, two sets of high-intensity LED headlights appeared, closing the gap at eighty miles an hour.
"Hold on!" Marcus shouted.
Crash!
The impact was brutal. A heavy black Suburban rammed our rear quarter-panel, sending the heavy sedan fishtailing across the slick asphalt before Marcus corrected with the steering wheel, rubber smoking against wet pavement.
A second SUV surged up on our right flank, the passenger window rolling down to reveal the snout of a submachine gun.
"Down!" Dominic roared.
He lunged across the leather, wrapping his entire body over mine, forcing my head into his lap as a deafening storm of lead shattered the outer layers of the ballistic glass. The sickening thwack-thwack-thwack of high-caliber rounds rattled against the metal frame like hail on a tin roof.
Dominic didn't flinch. His broad chest was a solid wall of bone and muscle pressed against my back, shielding every inch of my body with his own. Through his thin linen shirt, I could feel the fierce, frantic heat of his skin—and for the first time, he wasn't pulling away.
"Marcus, take the exit ramp toward the quarry!" Dominic commanded, reaching into the hidden compartment beneath the armrest and pulling out two customized black semi-automatics. He racked the slides in one fluid motion.
"Steering is compromised, boss!" Marcus grunted, fighting the wheel as another impact dented our passenger door. "We're losing tire pressure on the left rear!"
The Maybach careened off the highway, crashing through the chain-link gates of an abandoned gravel quarry carved into the sheer stone faces of the Palisades. The car spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees before slamming to a halt against an embankment of crushed stone.
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of steam escaping our punctured radiator and the pounding of the rain.
"Are you hit?" Dominic demanded, his hands framing my face, his thumbs wiping rain and stray dust from my temples. His silver eyes were wild, searching every inch of me with terrifying intensity. "Lily. Look at me. Did they touch you?"
"I'm fine," I gasped, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. "I'm fine. But they're here."
Through the cracked windshield, two black Suburbans skidded to a halt, blocking the only exit out of the quarry pit. Six men stepped out into the downpour, tactical jackets soaked, weapons raised. Among them, holding an assault rifle with a manic, bloodthirsty grin, was Julian Moretti.
"Marcus, stay with the vehicle. Cover the perimeter," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that chilling, dead register that signaled an execution.
"Dominic, there are six of them," I said, grabbing his forearm.
He looked down at my hand. His jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away.
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"They brought six men to an execution, Lily," he whispered, a lethal, breathtaking darkness passing over his face. "They should have brought an army."
He kicked open the mangled car door and stepped out into the rain.
