Chapter 8 - THE VIPER IN THE NEST
Morning filtered through the high, grated vent as a pale, watery streak of gray light. Norah woke up wrapped in the warmth of Rowan’s heavy jacket, lying on the narrow cot while Rowan stood by the heavy steel door, scanning the security monitors mounted on the wall.
The tranquility didn't last.
A sharp, distinct chime pinged from the monitor console—an external motion sensor tripping at the perimeter gate three hundred yards away.
Rowan stiffened instantly, his hand dropping to the grip of his pistol tucked into his waistband. "Stay behind the concrete pillar," he ordered without turning around.
"Who is it?" Norah asked, scrambling off the cot and buttoning her shirt. "The Morettis again?"
"No," Rowan muttered, his eyes narrowing as he watched the grainy black-and-white feed of the dock entrance. "The Morettis are licking their wounds. This is cleaner. Too clean."
The heavy steel door of the warehouse didn't crash open under a bomb or a battering ram; it swung open with a slow, deliberate click of an override code.
A figure stepped into the dim light of the warehouse, flanked by two armed mercenaries holding suppressed rifles.
It wasn't a rival gang leader. It was Vincent.
Rowan’s underboss walked forward with his signature lazy swagger, though his eyes were completely devoid of their usual mocking amusement. In his right hand, he held a sleek, suppressed 9mm pistol, pointed straight at the center of the room.
"Nice hideout, boss," Vincent called out, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls. " Cozy. Very dramatic."
Rowan stepped out from behind the console, placing himself squarely between Vincent and the pillar where Norah stood hidden. His face turned into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice.
"You gave the Morettis our location last night," Rowan stated flatly, his voice devoid of surprise, only a cold, venomous realization.
Vincent chuckled, shaking his head. "Business, Rowan. Just business. You went soft. You let a spreadsheet pusher cloud your judgment, you blew up a two-million-dollar deal with the unions over a ten percent hazard pay bump, and then you abandoned your post to play knight in shining armor at a French bistro." Vincent spat on the concrete floor. "The syndicate can't afford a king who lets a woman turn his brains to mush."
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"You think you can take my seat, Vincent?" Rowan asked, his hand resting casually near his holster, the single muscle near his temple ticking with lethal precision.
"I don't think, boss," Vincent smiled, raising his pistol higher, shifting his aim just an inch toward the pillar where Norah stood. "I know. And starting with her makes the transition permanent."
