Chapter 9 - The Extraction
The estate was burning.
Not the main house—not yet—but the old timber carriage house on the northern edge of the property was swallowed in a shroud of black smoke that rose into the rain-heavy night like a funeral pyre.
Two black tactical vans were parked across the gravel courtyard, their rear doors wide, floodlights mounted on the roof illuminating the stone entryway.
Vincent didn't tap the brakes.
He drove the captured SUV straight through the perimeter hedges, carving a deep, muddy trench through the manicured lawn, accelerating to sixty miles an hour across the open grass.
The gunmen stationed around the perimeter barely had time to turn their heads before the heavy vehicle slammed directly into the side of the lead tactical van.
The impact was deafening—the screech of tearing metal, the pop of tempered glass exploding outward, the shockwave tossing two men into the freezing mud.
Vincent kicked the driver’s door open before his vehicle had completely stopped moving.
He came out low, his rifle tucked tight against his shoulder.
He didn't fire in bursts; he fired with rhythmic, terrifying economy. Three shots, three targets down before the remaining attackers could clear the smoke. The survivors scrambled behind the burning carriage house, their submachine guns hammering wildly into the side of the overturned SUV, rounds pinging harmlessly off the reinforced armored plating.
Vincent dropped into a crouch behind the rear tire, ejecting his magazine and sliding a fresh thirty-round clip into the receiver with a sharp *clack*.
“Leo!” Vincent shouted into his lapel mic.
“Stairwell is compromised!” Leo’s voice came back, strained, punctuated by the sharp crack of his handgun firing from beneath concrete. “They dropped a gas canister through the vent! I’ve got Rachel and the kid in the vault, but the seal is melting!”
Vincent stood up.
He didn't take cover. He stepped straight into the field of fire, advancing toward the burning entrance with his rifle held level.
A man leaned out from behind a stone pillar, aiming a short-barreled shotgun. Vincent fired twice through the wooden siding three inches to the left of the pillar; the rounds punched through the timber, hitting the shooter in the chest, dropping him onto the burning porch.
Another man bolted from the rear door, attempting to reach the second van. Vincent led him by half a stride, pulling the trigger once. The man tumbled face-first into the gravel and lay still.
Vincent kicked the burning timber aside and descended the stone steps into the subterranean cellar.
The air was thick with the chemical stench of tear gas and burning plastic.
At the bottom of the landing, Leo knelt behind an overturned metal drum, his face streaked with soot, a wet handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his Glock smoking in his hand. Two dead men in black tactical gear lay sprawled across the concrete floor at his feet.
Behind him, the heavy steel vault door was sealed, but smoke was curling through the rubber gasket at the top.
“Open it,” Vincent commanded.
Leo coughed violently, tapped the digital keypad on the wall, and threw the heavy mechanical locking bar.
The steel door swung outward with a heavy, pneumatic hiss.
Inside, curled into the corner between two metal supply shelving units, Rachel sat shielding Sophie with her entire body.
Her coat was wrapped around the child’s head, protecting her from the fumes. Rachel’s eyes were swollen shut from the gas, tears streaming down her soot-stained cheeks, her knuckles white where she gripped the little girl’s shoulders.
When the door opened, Rachel didn't scream. She simply leaned back, exhausted, ready to take whatever bullet was meant for her daughter.
Then she saw Vincent.
She let out a ragged, broken gasp that sounded like a sob.
Vincent knelt down in the threshold of the vault. He didn't say a word. He reached into the dark, slipped his hands beneath Sophie, and lifted the child into his arms.
The little girl was coughing, her tiny hands clutching the worn stuffed fox against her chest, but she was alive. She opened her eyes, saw the scarred, familiar face beneath the yellow basement light, and buried her forehead into the crook of Vincent’s neck.
Her small body stopped shivering the moment his arms closed around her.
“Rachel,” Vincent said, his voice cutting through the ringing in her ears like a blade. “Stand up.”
Leo offered his arm, pulling the trembling woman to her feet.
“Are they all dead?” Rachel whispered, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely form the words.
Vincent looked down at Sophie, whose small fingers had hooked once again into the lapel of his torn coat.
“The ones here are dead,” Vincent said.
He turned toward the stairwell, carrying the child through the smoke, stepping over the bodies of the men Damian had sent to erase his name from the earth.
Outside, the rain was washing the soot into the grass, turning the courtyard into a gray, liquid slush.
The carriage house roof gave way with a tremendous roar, sending a shower of sparks fifty feet into the charcoal sky, illuminating the ruins of the Morelli estate in a violent, dancing orange glare.
Leo stood beside him on the wet gravel, reloading his weapon, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Where do we go, boss? The docks are flooded with dead bodies. The south side is mobilized. The feds will be here before the rain stops.”
Vincent didn't look at the burning house.
He looked at the driveway leading out to the highway.
“We don't run,” Vincent said softly.
He walked toward the remaining black tactical van, opened the passenger door, and placed Sophie gently on the bench seat, tucking her coat around her shoulders. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the little wooden fox that had fallen on the floorboards, and handed it back to her.
“Stay with your mother,” he told her.
Sophie looked at him, her brown eyes impossibly wide, clear of tears now. “Are you coming?”
Vincent looked at her for a long, quiet second.
“Soon,” he said.
He closed the van door, turned to Leo, and pointed down the service road. “Take them to the airstrip in Gary. Put them on the private transport to Montreal. Do not stop for fuel. Do not use the highway toll lanes.”
Leo paused, his fingers resting on the door handle. “And what about you, Vince?”
Vincent reached into the holster beneath his arm, checked the magazine of his Colt, and let the slide snap forward with a dry, metallic *click*.
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“I have a meeting,” Vincent said.
***
