Chapter 68
The realization that they had cornered the most dangerous man in Chicago in a subterranean bunker without their primary leverage broke the discipline of the Leviathan operatives.
"Kill him!" Volkov roared, raising his heavy sniper rifle.
Vincent didn't dive for cover. He became the storm.
He surged forward, utilizing the thick smoke from the breaching charge to mask his movements. He dropped to one knee, sliding across the polished concrete floor, firing his suppressed pistol with devastating, mechanical precision.
He didn't aim for center mass; the operatives wore heavy ballistic armor. He aimed for the unarmored joints.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Three operatives collapsed, screaming as armor-piercing rounds shattered their knees and thighs.
Volkov fired blindly into the smoke, the heavy-caliber rounds chewing through the concrete walls, showering the room in dust and sparks.
Vincent used the deafening noise to flank the remaining squad. He holstered his empty pistol and drew his heavy ceramic combat knife. He was a phantom, moving with fluid, terrifying lethality. He engaged the operatives in brutal close-quarters combat, driving the blade through throat gaps and disabling their weapon arms before they could even orient themselves to the threat.
In less than a minute, the eight elite operatives were bleeding and incapacitated on the floor of the panic room.
Vincent stood in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving, his tactical armor scored with bullet grazes. He turned his cold, apocalyptic gaze toward Volkov.
The Russian commander, realizing his entire assault force had been decimated, backed away slowly toward the heavy steel doors.
"You cannot win this war, Castalano," Volkov gasped, his arrogance entirely shattered. "The Leviathan is a global fleet. We will send an army."
"You don't have an army, Volkov," a smooth, chillingly calm voice echoed from the corridor outside the panic room.
Volkov spun around.
Standing in the doorway, bleeding from a superficial wound on his forehead but holding a heavy assault rifle with unshakeable resolve, was Marco.
Flanking Marco were dozens of heavily armed, furious ghost operatives who had successfully repelled the assault on the upper floors.
Volkov was completely, utterly trapped.
He dropped his heavy sniper rifle, the metal clattering loudly against the concrete. He raised his hands in surrender, staring at the terrifying mafia boss who had single-handedly slaughtered his elite squad.
"I yield," Volkov choked out.
Vincent walked slowly toward him. He didn't raise a weapon. He didn't speak. He grabbed Volkov by the collar of his heavy naval coat, hauling the massive man off his feet, and threw him brutally against the concrete wall.
"Where is your fleet?" Vincent growled softly, applying pressure to the man's throat.
"International waters," Volkov wheezed. "Off the coast of Maine. You can't touch them."
Vincent released his grip, letting the broken commander collapse to the floor. He turned to Marco.
"Secure him in the holding cells," Vincent commanded coldly. "And contact Clara on the encrypted analog frequency. Tell her it is safe to return."
Thirty minutes later, the hidden, reinforced concrete panel in the floor of the wine cellar slid smoothly open.
Clara climbed out, carrying a sleeping Aurora, followed closely by a very wide-eyed Luca.
Vincent was waiting for them. He dropped his weapons onto a nearby table and rushed forward, pulling them all into a massive, desperate embrace. He buried his face in Clara’s neck, the absolute, terrifying burden of the night finally lifting from his shoulders.
"You did perfectly," Vincent whispered roughly, kissing her hair.
"We remembered the drill, Daddy," Luca said bravely, hugging his father’s waist.
"You are incredibly brave, Luca," Vincent smiled warmly, looking down at his son.
The estate was severely damaged, but the family was whole. The Leviathan assault had failed catastrophically.
But as they stood in the quiet, dust-filled wine cellar, Vincent’s encrypted satellite phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The caller ID was a sequence he recognized instantly.
Cole Bennett.
"Vincent," Cole’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding exhausted but fiercely focused. "I hear you had some uninvited guests tonight."
May you like
"We handled them, Cole," Vincent replied smoothly, his tactical mind re-engaging. "But they are part of a massive naval fleet. The Leviathan."
"I know," Cole said softly. "I’m in a truck twenty miles outside Chicago with Sarah and Donovan. We are heading for the coast of Maine. We are going to sink their fleet."
