Chapter 57 - Blood in the Archives
The magnetic latch yielded under the concussive force of the bullets, groaning as the mechanical spring released. Vincent kicked the heavy door with all his weight, sending it flying outward.
We burst into the corridor. The two guards who had been standing watch lay slumped against the wall, their throats slit with surgical precision. No alarms were blaring; the breach had been silent, professional, and terrifyingly efficient.
"Stay behind me, Elena," Vincent whispered, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning every shadow of the corridor. "If anyone steps in front of us, you drop to the floor."
"I'm not leaving without Maya," I hissed, picking up a fallen guard's sidearm from the floor. My hands were shaking, but five years of living on the run, looking over my shoulder every second of every day, had wired my nervous system for survival. I racked the slide, chambering a round just like Vincent had shown me during our frantic escape through Sicily.
We moved fast through the subterranean tunnels, avoiding the main elevator shaft which had likely been severed. Vincent led me toward the emergency service stairs that bypassed the grand hallways and connected directly to the penthouse service quarters.
As we ascended the concrete steps, the sound of boots on metal echoed above us.
"Two targets," Vincent whispered, pausing on the landing of Level 2. "Heavy tactical gear."
He didn't wait for them to come down. Vincent stepped out onto the landing and fired two rapid, suppressed shots through the metal grating of the upper staircase. Two heavy thuds followed as the bodies tumbled down the steps, their weapons clattering against the risers.
Vincent stripped an earpiece from one of the fallen operatives and pressed it to his ear.
"...Primary target Vincent Moretti unaccounted for in sub-level," a cold, calm voice crackled over the radio. "Secure the asset on the top floor. Package the child. If the woman interferes, terminate her. She is replaceable with a forged power of attorney."
Vincent looked at me, his eyes pitch black with murderous intent. "They're in the penthouse."
We took the remaining stairs three at a time. The penthouse service door was hanging open, the lock sheared off by hydraulic tools.
Inside, the living room was ransacked. Marco lay unconscious near the fireplace, blood pooling from a head wound. Dante was nowhere to be seen.
"Maya!" I screamed, breaking protocol and sprinting into the master bedroom.
May you like
The room was empty. The bed was disheveled, the cashmere blanket tossed onto the floor.
And on the pillow where my little girl had been resting lay a single silver coin—the crest of the New York Commission stamped into its face.
