Chapter 8 - The Siege of the Estate
Thirty minutes later, our convoy was speeding back across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge toward New York, with Julian resting comfortably in the back of the lead SUV under the care of our syndicate medic.
He was bruised, exhausted, and dehydrated, but alive.
As we crossed back into Manhattan, my phone buzzed violently in my tactical vest. I pulled it out and flipped open the encrypted screen. It was an automated alert from the estate’s perimeter security system.
CRITICAL WARNING: MULTIPLE UNKNOWN VEHICLES BREACHED NORTH GATE. CAMERA FEED COMPROMISED.
My blood ran cold.
“Frankie!” I shouted over the hum of the engine. “Step on it! We’ve got an active breach at the estate!”
“Moretti’s men?” Frankie asked, gripping his steering wheel as he slammed the accelerator down, weaving our armored SUV through evening traffic.
“They tracked our movements,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs like a sledgehammer. “They know we took Julian. And they’re coming for the girl.”
Back at the estate, Hannah and nine-month-old Grace were sitting in the secure east wing nursery.
We had left four of our best men guarding that wing. But if Victor Rizzo’s remaining loyalists—or Moretti’s strike team—had managed to bypass the outer security grid, four men wouldn't be enough.
“Drive through the gates!” I roared.
Our three SUVs didn't slow down as we approached the iron perimeter gates of the Manhattan estate. The lead vehicle rammed directly through the electronic gates, sending iron bars flying across the cobblestone courtyard in a shower of sparks.
The scene inside the courtyard looked like a war zone.
Two black sedans bearing Philadelphia plates were parked haphazardly near the fountain, their doors open. The bodies of two of our perimeter guards lay face-down on the stone path. Heavy automatic gunfire echoed from the second-floor windows of the east wing.
“Guns free!” I yelled, kicking my door open before the SUV had even come to a full stop.
I vaulted out of the vehicle, my Sig Sauer drawn, firing two rapid shots into a Moretti gunman who was trying to set a breaching charge against the front oak doors. The man dropped his explosives and collapsed into the hydrangeas.
“Frankie, take the rear staircase!” I commanded, sprinting toward the grand foyer. “Secure the perimeter! Nobody leaves this property alive!”
We surged into the mansion.
The marble floors were slick with smoke and shattered glass. Syndicate enforcers from both sides traded gunfire across the grand staircase, bullets splintering the antique mahogany banisters and shattering priceless crystal wall sconces.
I vaulted up the stairs, two steps at a time, my pistol leading the way.
When I reached the second-floor hallway leading to the east wing, two gunmen in tactical gear stepped out of the shadows, raising their rifles toward my chest.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped to one knee, firing three rapid shots into the lead gunman’s chest, while Frankie—appearing around the corner behind me—put a burst of submachine gun fire into the second.
We cleared the threshold of the east wing nursery.
The heavy oak door was riddled with bullet holes. Inside, one of our guards—a veteran named Sal—was kneeling behind an overturned oak dresser, returning fire through the shattered nursery window, while his partner lay wounded near the crib.
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And right in the center of the room, huddled behind a heavy velvet armchair, was Hannah Reed.
She was clutching nine-month-old Grace tightly against her chest, her eyes wide with absolute, primal terror as a masked gunman kicked open the adjoining bathroom door and raised a silenced pistol directly toward them.
