Chapter 8 - THE HIGHWAY MASSACRE
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Luca was on his feet before Marco could finish the sentence.
All traces of gentleness vanished from his features, replaced instantly by the lethal instincts of an apex predator.
He crossed the room in two strides, opening the reinforced door.
“Status,” Luca snapped.
Marco stood in the hallway, his tactical vest already strapped over his chest, an assault rifle slung across his shoulder.
“Three armored SUVs ambushed the transport van on the I-90 bridge,” Marco reported rapidly.
“They used smoke grenades and high-caliber rounds to disable the escort.”
“Two federal agents are down.”
“Antonio and Vanessa were extracted and are heading south toward their private airstrip in Gary, Indiana.”
Luca didn't hesitate.
“Where is the airstrip manifest?”
“Registered under a shell company called Horizon Cargo,” Marco said.
“A Gulfstream jet has its engines idling on runway four.”
“They have forty minutes before takeoff.”
Luca turned back toward the bedroom, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Claire, stay inside this wing.”
“Marco is leaving four heavy enforcers outside this door with orders to shoot anyone who approaches.”
“Do not open this door until you hear my voice.”
I stood up from the armchair, my heart pounding with terror.
“Luca, please be careful.”
The use of his first name slipped out before I could stop myself.
He paused at the threshold, looking at me with an intensity that took my breath away.
“Nobody threatens my family and lives to see the sunrise, Claire,” he said softly.
“I will be back before breakfast.”
He turned and sprinted down the hallway, Marco flanking him on the right.
The sound of high-performance engines roaring to life in the subterranean garage echoed through the mansion floorboards.
Four modified black Dodge Chargers tore out of the estate gates, their tires shrieking against the wet asphalt.
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour, washing over the Chicago skyline like a gray sheet of lead.
Luca sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, loading a customized tactical shotgun with practiced precision.
“Call the control tower at Gary Regional,” Luca ordered his driver.
“Tell them there is an active bomb threat on runway four.”
“Ground all air traffic immediately.”
“Understood, boss,” the driver replied, speeding through red lights at ninety miles per hour.
Twenty-two minutes later, the black convoy smashed through the chain-link perimeter fence of the private airstrip.
Metal screamed and sparked as the heavy reinforced bumper tore through the gate.
Out on the tarmac, the twin engines of the private jet were whining, preparing for taxi.
Two black Bellini SUVs were parked near the boarding stairs, six armed guards covering the rear.
Vanessa Bellini was running up the metal stairs in the pouring rain, her soaked red gown clinging to her legs.
Antonio Bellini stood at the bottom of the stairs, waving a submachine gun wildly toward the breached fence.
“Light them up!” Antonio roared.
Gunfire erupted across the dark runway, tracer rounds cutting through the rain like streaks of fire.
Luca’s driver spun the Charger into a tactical J-turn, using the armored side of the vehicle as an iron shield.
Luca kicked his door open into the storm.
He raised the shotgun and fired three thunderous rounds in rapid succession.
The front engine block of the nearest Bellini SUV exploded in a fireball, knocking two gunmen off their feet.
Luca advanced through the smoke like a ghost, relentless and unyielding.
Return fire pinged off the tarmac around his boots, but he didn't even flinch.
He pumped the slide, firing again, dropping another attacker behind the landing gear.
Antonio Bellini turned to flee up the stairs, but his foot slipped on the wet metal step.
He tumbled backward, crashing onto the concrete tarmac.
His weapon skittered away into the dark.
Luca stepped out of the smoke, the barrel of his smoking shotgun resting directly against Antonio Bellini’s forehead.
The older mobster lay in the freezing rain, gasping for breath, looking up at the grim reaper.
“Luca... please,” Antonio wheezed, his teeth chattering with terror.
“We can split the territory... fifty-fifty...”
Luca looked down at him with cold, pitiless disgust.
“You made a mistake, Antonio.”
“What mistake?”
“You thought I was my father,” Luca said.
“My father believed in deals.”
“I believe in eradication.”
Up on the boarding platform, Vanessa screamed as Marco grabbed her by the hair, dragging her backward down the metal stairs.
She fell into the puddle beside her father, soaking in the freezing rainwater.
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The Gulfstream jet engines sputtered and died as the airport authorities cut the fuel lines from the tower.
The Bellini empire had reached the end of the runway.
