Chapter 6 - The Basement Ambush
The air in the subterranean loading dock was thick with the smell of exhaust fumes and cheap cigars. The massive concrete pillars cast long, deep shadows, providing the perfect cover for an ambush.
Grace, Vincent, Michael, and Isabella crept silently down the final set of maintenance stairs, emerging behind a row of industrial dumpsters. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the armored SUVs.
Anthony DeLuca checked his gold Rolex. He looked completely relaxed, a man who believed he had just pulled off the greatest coup in mafia history.
“Load the last bag,” Anthony ordered his mercenaries, his voice echoing in the cavernous garage. “The police response time is delayed, thanks to our friends at the precinct, but we shouldn’t push our luck. Leave the men upstairs to clean up the Romanos.”
“They won’t find us upstairs, Anthony,” Vincent’s voice suddenly boomed across the garage.
Anthony DeLuca froze. The cigar fell from his lips, landing on the oily concrete. The mercenaries instantly raised their rifles, scanning the shadows.
Vincent stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, completely unarmed, his hands resting casually in his pockets. He looked like he was taking an evening stroll, not confronting a heavily armed hit squad.
“Vincent,” Anthony breathed, genuinely shocked. “How did you get out of the ballroom?”
“I have excellent staff,” Vincent replied smoothly.
“Kill him!” Anthony screamed, scrambling backward toward the open door of the SUV.
Before the mercenaries could fire, Michael stepped out from the opposite side of the garage and opened fire. His shots were precise, taking down two of the mercenaries in a spray of blood before they even knew where the bullets were coming from.
The garage erupted into chaos. Gunfire deafened the enclosed space. Bullets sparked against the concrete pillars and shattered the reinforced glass of the SUVs.
Grace was huddled behind a dumpster, her hands gripping the cold steel of the Glock. She was terrified, but her mind was racing. She noticed two of the mercenaries flanking Michael’s position, moving silently through the shadows to blindside him. Michael was pinned down, reloading, entirely unaware of the men approaching his left side.
Grace didn't think. She acted.
She popped up from behind the dumpster, aimed the gun with trembling hands, and pulled the trigger.
The recoil threw her backward, but the loud crack of the gunshot was enough to distract the mercenaries. They spun toward her, firing a burst of bullets that punched holes into the steel dumpster inches from her head. She screamed, dropping to the floor.
But the distraction was all Michael needed. Realizing his flank was compromised, he rolled out of cover and took down the two men with a rapid succession of shots.
He glanced over at the dumpster, nodding once to the waitress who had just saved his life.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing alarm ripped through the garage. Isabella had broken away from the group and sprinted across the open floor, slamming her hand onto the emergency fire suppression panel on the wall.
Instantly, the ceiling nozzles roared to life, but they didn't spray water. They sprayed thick, blinding, white chemical foam designed to put out chemical fires in the loading dock.
The garage was plunged into a blizzard of white foam. Visibility dropped to zero. The mercenaries stopped shooting, coughing and blinded by the harsh chemicals.
In the confusion, Anthony DeLuca stumbled blindly toward his SUV, clutching a single duffel bag of cash.
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But a figure emerged from the white mist, blocking his path.
It was Isabella, wearing her ruined wedding dress, coated in white foam, holding a gun pointed directly at her father’s chest.
