Chapter 5 - Fire in the Tunnels
The air down forty feet beneath Beacon Hill smelled of wet earth, iron, and centuries of salt water.
Roman moved down the rusted iron rungs with the practiced silence of a man who had spent his youth crawling through dark alleys in Southie. In his right hand, he held his suppressed pistol; in his left, a low-intensity tactical torch that cast a faint blue beam against the ancient red-brick archways.
Behind him came Dante—a massive, silent enforcer built like an anvil—and three of Roman's most ruthless operators, all dressed in black tactical gear with submachine guns held tight against their chests.
"The tunnel splits two hundred feet ahead, Boss," Dante whispered into his earpiece microphone. "Right branch goes to the old brewery vaults under Cambridge Street. Left branch leads down to the storm outflow on the Charles River."
"They're coming from the river," Roman replied softly, stopping at the base of the brick chimney shaft.
On the muddy ground beneath his boots lay fresh footprints—heavy work boots, deep treads, water dripping from wet denim onto the mud.
Two men.
Roman held up a hand, signaling his team to hold position behind the curve of the brick archway.
Through the darkness, the faint beam of a yellow flashlight flickered against the damp walls. Two voices carried down the narrow corridor, muffled by the low ceiling.
"She’s late with the drive swap," a rough voice muttered in a thick South Boston accent. "Dominic said if she’s slipping, we flush the shaft and seal the grate from the outside."
"Dominic’s losing his mind," another voice replied. "Duca’s house is locked down tight. If Duca’s security finds that bitch in the wall, he’s gonna know everything."
"Duca doesn't know shit," the first man spat. "He’s sitting up there in his silk bathrobe drinking whiskey while we run his whole empire from under his floorboards."
Roman’s jaw tightened. He stepped out from behind the brick archway into the center of the tunnel, raising his weapon with absolute, mechanical precision.
"You're half right," Roman said.
The yellow flashlight beam whipped toward his face.
Thwip. Thwip.
The suppressed gunshots sounded like heavy boots dropping into wet mud.
Both mercenaries collapsed onto the gravel floor of the tunnel before their hands could touch their weapons. One died instantly; the second slumped against the damp brick wall, clutching his shoulder as blood soaked through his leather jacket.
Roman walked up to the surviving man, placing the toe of his Italian leather boot against the man’s throat, pinning his head against the stone.
"Who’s waiting at the river grate?" Roman asked calmly.
The man gagged, his eyes wild with shock as he stared up into Roman’s cold, unblinking eyes. "F-Fuck you, Duca—"
Roman pressed his boot down half an inch, cutting off the man’s air supply until his lips turned blue.
"I have a six-year-old girl sleeping upstairs," Roman whispered, leaning down close. "She had to listen to your trash scratching behind her wall for weeks because your boss couldn't fight me like a man. Give me a reason not to leave your body in this mud for the rats."
"Dominic!" the man gasped, choking as Roman loosened his boot slightly. "Dominic’s in a black van at the Hatch Shell docks! He’s waiting for the audio drives! He’s got... he’s got five men with him!"
Roman looked back at Dante. "Seal this tunnel. Bring the explosives team to collapse the shaft behind my study. I don't ever want another shadow inside my house."
"And Vancura?" Dante asked, racking the slide of his weapon.
May you like
Roman stepped over the bleeding man, looking down the dark, wet stretch of the tunnel that led toward the river.
"Tonight, Dominic Vancura learns what happens when you cross my threshold," Roman said. "Call the fleet. We’re taking the river."
