Chapter 8 - Breach at the Gates (Approx. 1800 words)The heavy steel security door at the end of the archive vault’s access corridor began to shudder under the impact of heavy hydraulic breaching charges.
Boom!
The concussive blast rattled the dust off the concrete ceiling, showering us in gray debris.
“Inbound!” Marcus’s voice crackled frantically over the tactical intercom speaker on the wall. “Boss! We’ve got multiple armed operators breaching the north gate! They bypassed the outer perimeter defenses using heavy explosives! Get out of the sub-level now!”
“Marcus, how many?!” I shouted into the wall comm, grabbing Elise’s hand and pulling her away from the table.
“At least a dozen! Highly trained professional mercenaries—Moretti’s clean-up crew! They’re heading straight for the archive vaults! They want those ledgers!”
I drew my Beretta with my right hand, shielding Elise behind my body as we retreated toward the emergency spiral staircase tucked in the rear corner of the vault.
“Take these,” I ordered, shoving the box containing the ledger and microfilms into her arms. “Go up the stairs to the safe room on the third floor! Lock the steel bulkhead from the inside and don't open it for anyone except me or Marcus!”
“I’m not leaving you here to die!” Elise cried out, her eyes wide with terror and defiance.
“Listen to me!” I grabbed her shoulders, shaking her gently, staring straight into her soul. “My daughters need you. If I don't walk out of this basement, you take those files to federal prosecutor James Vance at the DOJ downtown. Promise me!”
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she nodded fiercely. “I promise.”
She turned and sprinted up the spiral staircase, the metal steps clanging loudly beneath her boots until she disappeared into the darkness above.
I turned around, racking the slide of my pistol, stepping back into the shadow of the concrete corridor as the heavy steel security door of the vault buckled inward with a sickening groan of stressed metal.
Bang!
The door blew entirely off its hinges, crashing onto the polished concrete floor in a cloud of acrid smoke.
Three heavily armed men in black tactical gear, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying suppressed submachine guns, swarmed through the breach.
I didn't hesitate.
Bang! Bang!
My first two rounds caught the lead operator in the chest plate, dropping him instantly. I ducked behind a massive concrete support pillar as a hail of suppressive fire chewed through the stone inches from my head, sending sparks flying into my face.
“Flank him! Flank him!” a gruff voice barked in Italian over tactical comms.
Two operators split up, moving rapidly along either side of the archive rows, trying to box me in.
I popped out from behind the pillar, double-tapping the second operator through his shoulder and thigh before he could bring his weapon to bear. He collapsed, screaming in agony, dropping his submachine gun across the floor.
That left the leader.
Footsteps echoed softly behind me. I spun around, raising my pistol, but an iron-grip hand clamped around my wrist, smashing my gun hand against the concrete pillar. The Beretta slipped from my fingers, clattering across the floor out of reach.
I threw a vicious right hook, catching the towering mercenary squarely on the jaw. He grunted, stumbling back a step, but recovered instantly, driving a brutal knee straight into my stomach.
The wind rushed out of my lungs in a violent gasp. I crashed hard against the metal shelving units, historic ledgers tumbling down around us like rain.
The mercenary loomed over me, drawing a heavy combat knife from his tactical vest, his eyes gleaming with cold, professional malice through his dark visor.
“Dante Caruso,” the man sneered in a gravelly voice. “The boss sends his regards. Say hello to your old man.”
He raised the knife for a downward strike.
I braced myself, my muscles locking, preparing for the fatal blow.
Crack!
A deafening gunshot echoed through the vaulted room.
The mercenary’s eyes widened in shock. A blooming red stain suddenly blossomed across his tactical chest rig, and his knees buckled instantly. He collapsed forward, crashing face-first onto the concrete floor beside me, motionless.
I looked up, coughing heavily, sucking air back into my burning lungs.
Standing at the edge of the corridor, holding a smoking Remington shotgun with both hands, was Marcus Vance—bleeding from a shallow gash on his forehead, but standing tall.
“You okay, boss?” Marcus rasped, spitting blood onto the floor.
“I’ve felt better,” I wheezed, pushing myself up off the floor, leaning against the metal shelves. “Casualties?”
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“Three guards wounded up top, but the perimeter is secured. Backup from the Chicago PD tactical unit is three minutes out,” Marcus reported, walking over and kicking the dead mercenary’s weapon away. “The Moretti cleanup crew just got wiped out.”
I nodded grimly, wiping blood from my lip. “Let’s check on Elise and the girls.”
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