Chapter 8 - The Trap Springs
The detonation was blinding, concussive, and absolute.
A white-hot burst of magnesium light illuminated every crack in the ancient cellar walls, accompanied by a deafening 170-decibel blast that shattered the eardrums of every man caught in the open corridor.
Sal Moretti’s men stumbled backward, blinded, firing their automatic weapons randomly into the stone ceiling as chunks of pulverized rock rained down upon their heads.
Dominic didn't waste a millisecond.
He broke from behind the pillar with lethal momentum. He didn't fire from a distance; he engaged at point-blank range. His M4 spat controlled, rapid bursts, dropping two Moretti operators before they could clear their vision. He transitioned to his SIG Sauer with his left hand, double-tapping a third shooter through the neck, using the momentum of his body to drive Sal Moretti backward against the reinforced foundation wall.
The chrome Desert Eagle flew from Sal’s grip, clattering across the wet, wine-soaked floor.
Sal roared like a wounded bear, throwing a massive, tree-trunk fist into Dominic’s ribs. Dominic felt the air leave his lungs, the impact cracking against his body armor, but he didn't yield an inch. He hooked his leg behind Sal’s knee, driving his elbow downward into the giant’s clavicle with bone-shattering force.
Sal dropped to one knee, but his thick fingers locked around Dominic’s throat, squeezing with the hydraulic pressure of a vice.
“You’re... dead... Rainer...” Sal wheezed, blood pouring from his burst eardrums, his face purple with rage.
Dominic looked into the eyes of the man who had ordered the hit on Huron Road. He saw the cold, soulless ambition of an empire builder who viewed human beings as line items on a balance sheet. He thought of Elena lying on the frozen pavement in Cleveland. He thought of the raw, weeping pressure sores on her hips from the plastic brace. He thought of her crying into her pillow in the guest room, believing she was worthless because her spine had been shattered in his place.
Dominic didn't reach for his gun.
He reached for the serrated tactical blade sheathed at his chest.
With a smooth, continuous upward motion, Dominic drove eight inches of forged carbon steel through the base of Sal Moretti’s jaw, angling the blade directly into the brain stem.
Sal’s eyes rolled back into his head instantly. His massive hands released Dominic’s throat, his fingers going limp, his heavy body collapsing forward into the pool of red wine and cordite residue.
Dominic stood over the corpse of the Detroit heir, his chest heaving, wiping the sweat and blood from his eyes with the back of his forearm.
Behind him, the cellar was quiet.
Lev and his soldiers emerged from the smoke, their weapons lowered, their eyes sweeping the carnage. Every Moretti soldier was down. In the corner, huddled beneath the shattered remains of the wine cask, Marco Bellandi was rocking back and forth, clutching his knees, his mind completely broken by the slaughter.
Lev walked up beside Dominic, his boots splashing through the wine. “Boss. The perimeter is clear. The remaining two Suburbans fled toward the highway when they heard the breach fail.”
Dominic took a long, steadying breath. He looked down at his ruined suit, stained with dirt, wine, and the blood of his enemies.
“Burn the house,” Dominic said quietly.
Lev blinked, staring at him in shock. “Boss? Burn the estate?”
“Every square inch,” Dominic commanded, his voice cold, final, and absolute. “Let the Detroit council think Sal succeeded. Let the federal wiretaps report that Dominic Rainer’s estate was consumed by a catastrophic fire. Luca is dead. Marco is a ghost. Sal is ash. I want the world to believe the Rainer family died in this basement tonight.”
Lev understood instantly. A slow, grim nod crossed the Ukrainian’s face. “And Mrs. Rainer?”
Dominic turned toward the blast door leading to the river.
Through the heavy steel frame, three bright green flares arced into the stormy sky above the Hudson, their brilliant emerald light reflecting off the rushing, rain-swept current of the river.
Kathryn’s boat was away. Elena was safe.
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“My wife is waiting for her surgery,” Dominic said, tossing his empty rifle onto Sal Moretti’s chest. “Get the incendiary charges set. We have thirty minutes to make Poughkeepsie.”
***
