Chapter 8 - The Kitchen Camera Verdict
The lights inside the mansion flickered once, twice, and died, plunging the kitchen into pitch darkness save for the flashes of lightning illuminating the tall windows.
Outside, the crackle of heavy automatic gunfire erupted across the front lawn.
"Get her to the safe room!" Vincent roared, pulling a pair of heavy pistols from his hidden wall cabinet near the pantry.
"No!" Norah shouted, grabbing his arm in the dark. "Vincent, listen to me! They expect you to fall back to the safe room in the basement! That's where Marcus was kept—they know the layout!"
Vincent stopped, looking at her in the strobing light of the lightning outside. "What are you thinking?"
"The kitchen monitoring feed!" Norah said, her mind working at lightning speed. "The secondary security system I found on the external server—it has independent battery backup! We can see every room in this house from the kitchen console, but they think the main control room downstairs is dead!"
Enzo’s eyes lit up in the dark. "She's right! The backup feed runs on a separate fiber loop!"
Within sixty seconds, Norah was sitting at the central island console, the battery-powered backup monitors glowing blue against her face.
On the screens, thirty armed men in heavy rain gear were pouring through the broken glass doors of the grand foyer, moving in tactical squads toward the basement stairs.
"They're taking the bait," Norah said, her fingers flying across the touch panel. "Squad A is entering the east corridor. Squad B is moving toward the formal dining room."
Vincent stood behind her, his heavy hands resting on her shoulders, leaning over her screen like a general over a battle map.
"Enzo," Vincent commanded into his tactical headset. "Take Team 1 through the pantry service tunnel. Trap Squad A in the east hall. I'll take Squad B in the dining room."
"Wait," Norah said, pointing at Screen 4. "Look at the lead man in Squad B."
Vincent leaned closer.
On the screen, the man leading the assault on the dining room pulled off his wet tactical mask.
It wasn't one of Russo’s captains.
It was Inspector Thomas Vance—the chief of the NYPD Organized Crime Task Force, the very man who had led the public arrest of Frank Russo five hours earlier.
"Vance..." Vincent growled, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned. "He wasn't fighting Russo. He was Russo’s partner. He’s here to wipe out the estate and burn the evidence before the feds can process his name in the ledgers."
"He's wearing a body cam," Norah noted, zooming in on Vance’s vest. "He’s planning to claim he raided the estate on an official warrant and that you opened fire on federal officers."
"Not if I record him first," Norah whispered.
She hit the red recording button on the master console, locking the feed to three secure cloud servers simultaneously—including the live news broadcast feed of NBC New York.
"Vincent," Norah said, looking up at him with a cold, triumphant smile. "Go down to the dining room. Talk to him. Make him state his business on camera."
Vincent looked at her, a dark, brilliant flash of pride dancing in his hazel eyes.
"You really are a tactical genius, Miss Bennett," Vincent whispered, leaning down to press a quick, fierce kiss to her lips. "Hold the line."
Three minutes later, Inspector Vance kicked open the heavy oak doors of the formal dining room, his squad of dirty cops raising their rifles.
Vincent Rossi sat at the head of the long mahogany table, alone, holding a glass of amber scotch, lit only by the flickering candlelight of two silver candelabras.
"Drop your weapon, Rossi!" Vance screamed, stepping forward, his rifle aimed at Vincent's chest. "You're under arrest for federal racketeering!"
Vincent didn't move. He took a slow sip of his scotch and looked up at Vance with absolute disdain.
"An arrest warrant at two in the morning without federal marshals, Inspector?" Vincent asked smoothly. "Or did Frank Russo pay you five million dollars to make sure I don't live long enough to testify at his trial?"
Vance sneered, stepping closer. "Russo is a fool. But he was right about one thing: you're too smart for this city, Vincent. Once you're dead, I take over the docks, the shipping lines, and the city council. Nobody will ever check the evidence tapes."
"Are you sure about that, Inspector?" Vincent asked softly.
Vance frowned. "What?"
Above Vance's head, the red recording light on the ceiling camera blinked three times.
In the kitchen upstairs, Norah pressed ENTER.
Across New York City, breaking news banners flashed across every television screen, smartphone app, and news network: LIVE FEED: CHIEF OF NYPD ORGANIZED CRIME TASK FORCE ADMITS TO MAFIA CONSPIRACY AND ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT.
Outside the mansion gates, six armored vehicles belonging to the FBI Internal Affairs Division screeched to a halt, sirens blaring through the storm.
Vance’s radio burst into chaotic static: "Vance! Abort! Abort! You're live on national television! The FBI is inside the driveway!"
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Vance turned dead pale. He looked up at the blinking red light on the ceiling camera, then back at Vincent.
"It wasn't me who caught you, Vance," Vincent said, standing up slowly and buttoning his jacket. "It was my wife."
