Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
Julian Costa was Vincent’s younger brother—and the only innocent soul left in the blood-soaked lineage of the family. Paralyzed from the waist down following an assassination attempt seven years ago, Julian had lived in absolute seclusion at a fortified estate near Lake Placid, entirely removed from the syndicate’s daily violence.
Now, he was in the hands of a butcher.
In the command center adjoining Vincent’s office, the atmosphere was suffocating. Blue-light monitors bathed the room in a ghostly glow. Five tactical leads were barking encrypted coordinates into headsets, while Leo stood over a digital floor plan of an abandoned maritime freight depot along the Kill Van Kull in Staten Island.
“Thermal scans show seven hostiles inside the primary warehouse,” Leo said, pointing a laser stylus at the schematic. “Two more stationed on the crane towers. They’re running jamming frequencies across standard cellular bands. If we send a tactical unit in, they’ll execute Julian the second our tires cross the perimeter fence.”
Vincent leaned over the console, his knuckles white against the metal frame. “What about the water approach?”
“Tide is running out at four knots,” Leo replied grimly. “Too noisy. A Zodiac boat would be spotted by the crane snipers half a mile out. Volkov set this up specifically to negate our numbers. He wants one vehicle. One driver. And the girl.”
Mave stood near the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. She had changed into black tactical cargo pants, sturdy combat boots, and a form-fitting dark turtleneck. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe ponytail.
She stepped forward into the glow of the monitors.
“Then we give him what he wants.”
Every man in the room went dead silent. Leo looked up, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
Vincent straightened slowly, his eyes locking onto hers with a fury that could have melted steel. “You will not speak of this again. You are not going anywhere near that depot.”
“Vincent, look at the board!” Mave demanded, her voice ringing clear and authoritative, cutting through the masculine tension of the room. “Your brother doesn't have his medication. He’s in a wheelchair, surrounded by mercenaries who view him as leverage! You heard Volkov’s terms. If anyone other than me walks through that front gate, Julian dies before you can draw a weapon!”
“I will not trade your life for his!” Vincent roared, slamming his fist against the console, shattering one of the auxiliary screens.
The security leads flinched, instinctively taking a step back from the boss’s unbridled rage.
Mave didn't flinch. She took three confident steps forward, closing the distance until she was standing toe-to-toe with the most dangerous man in the city.
“You aren't trading me, Vincent,” she said, her voice steady, her eyes unyielding. “You’re using me as bait.”
Vincent glared at her, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. “You don't know what these men do to captives, Mave. You don't have the stomach for this.”
“I’ve managed your supply chains for three years,” she countered fiercely. “I know the weight, the speed, and the payload of every container in that Staten Island depot because I signed the lease agreements! I know the blind spots of those crane towers better than Volkov’s snipers do. I know that warehouse has an underground drainage conduit running directly into the salt marsh behind the south wall.”
Leo’s eyes widened. He rapidly tapped the keyboard, pulling up the industrial blueprints from four decades ago.
“She’s right,” Leo whispered, looking up at Vincent. “The old stormwater runoff pipe. It’s narrow, but a three-man breach team with rebreathers could crawl through from the marsh without triggering the perimeter sensors on the tarmac.”
Vincent stared at the schematic, the battle raging behind his dark eyes. It was a viable tactical plan—the only plan that gave Julian a fighting chance of survival. But the cost was catastrophic: it required Mave to walk into the lion’s den completely exposed, relying solely on Vincent’s timing to save her before Volkov pulled the trigger.
“If my timing is off by three seconds,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly fragile whisper meant only for her, “you die.”
“Your timing is never off,” Mave said softly, reaching out to rest her hand against the rigid line of his jaw.
His eyes closed for a fraction of a second at her touch, a muscle leaping beneath his skin. When he opened them, the indecision was gone. In its place was the terrifying, cold calculation of an apex predator preparing for slaughter.
“Leo,” Vincent commanded without looking away from Mave’s face. “Prep the rebreathers. Assemble the tier-one team. We roll out in twenty minutes.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, flesh-toned adhesive patch no larger than a postage stamp. He took Mave’s right hand, turning her palm upward, and pressed the patch firmly behind the cartilage of her right ear.
“Sub-dermal audio receiver and transponder,” Vincent explained, his fingers lingering on her skin. “It transmits your biometrics directly to my earpiece. As long as your heart beats, I can track you through six feet of solid concrete. Keep talking to Volkov. Keep his attention on you. Do not look toward the south wall.”
“And what happens when you breach?” she asked.
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Vincent pulled a sleek, heavy combat knife from a scabbard on his belt, sliding it into the hidden sheath sewn into the back of her cargo trousers.
“When the lights go out, Mave,” he whispered, his eyes blazing with a dark, terrifying promise, “you drop to the floor, and you let me kill every breathing thing in that room.”
