Chapter 7 - The Assault on DUMBO
“Stay behind me,” Dante ordered instantly, pulling two fresh magazines from his belt and loading his Sig Sauer with a harsh metallic clack.
“They found us?” Julianna asked, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “How? No one saw us come here!”
“They didn't track us,” Dante said, his face hardening into absolute rage. “Someone inside my organization sold the address.”
The heavy steel reinforced front door of the penthouse shivered under a massive hydraulic breach charge.
BOOM!
The lock shattered, spraying steel fragments across the hardwood floor.
Four black-clad tactical men burst into the open-plan loft, raising automatic submachine guns.
Dante didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee behind the kitchen island, resting his elbow on the granite counter, and opened fire with terrifying precision.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The first two operatives collapsed instantly, their tactical helmets failing against high-velocity rounds at close range. The third man sprayed the kitchen island with automatic fire, shattering glass jars, tearing through copper pots, and sending clouds of white flour exploding into the air.
“Move to the fire escape!” Dante yelled at Julianna, grabbing her sweater collar and shoving her toward the rear hallway. “Go!”
Julianna didn't run.
Instead, she grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet hanging from the rack above the island, ducked low beneath the flying wood splinters, and swung the skillet with all her weight into the knees of the third operative as he stepped around the counter.
CRACK!
The man shrieked as his kneecap shattered. He fell forward onto his face.
Dante instantly stepped over him, placing a shot into the back of his tactical vest, neutralizing him instantly.
The fourth operative pulled a flashbang grenade from his chest rig, pulling the pin with his teeth.
“Dante! Grenade!” Julianna screamed.
Dante threw his entire body over Julianna, pressing her flat against the hardwood floor beneath his heavy frame just as the flashbang detonated.
BANG-FLASH!
A blinding white light and a sound like a jet engine exploding tore through the loft. Dante groaned, his ears ringing violently, his vision swimming in white spots.
Through the haze, a heavy combat boot stepped into his field of vision.
Marcus Vance—Richard Sterling’s head of security—stood over them, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at Dante’s head.
“End of the line, Serrano,” Marcus sneered, his finger tightening around the trigger. “You should have stayed in Little Italy.”
POP.
A bullet tore through Marcus Vance’s right shoulder from behind.
Marcus stumbled forward, dropping his weapon with a howl of rage.
Standing in the broken doorway of the penthouse was a elderly man in a black wool coat, holding an old-fashioned snub-nosed .38 revolver. He was accompanied by six heavily armed men in dark suits—not military contractors, but veteran mobsters from the old Serrano family guard.
It was Lorenzo—the mob doctor—and Dante’s inner council.
“You brought government mercenaries into Brooklyn, boy?” Lorenzo grunted, stepping over the threshold and raising his revolver again. “That’s bad for business.”
POP. POP.
Marcus Vance fell sideways, crashing onto the broken hardwood floor, dead before he hit the ground.
Dante pushed himself up slowly, coughing up white flour and smoke, checking Julianna immediately. “Are you hit?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes wild, looking at the bodies scattered across the beautiful loft floor.
“They won't stop, Dante,” she breathed, grabbing his shirt collar with trembling hands. “Richard will send fifty more tomorrow. He will send them until we are both dead.”
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Dante wiped blood from his forehead, looking at Lorenzo, then back at Julianna.
“He won't have until tomorrow,” Dante said, his dark eyes burning with absolute, lethal certainty. “Tonight, we go to Wall Street.”
