Chapter 8 - The Ambush at the Waterfront
The main floor of the mansion was a graveyard of smoke, splintered mahogany, and broken glass.
Marcus lay wounded behind the marble island in the kitchen, a tourniquet tied tightly around his thigh, his service pistol resting on his chest. When he saw me step through the basement doorway, he let out a ragged breath of relief.
“Boss…” he coughed, blood staining his teeth. “Sal took the side terrace. He figured out about the tunnel. He’s taking his remaining two shooters down the cliff path to intercept the boathouse.”
“How many down?” I asked, kneeling beside him and checking his bandage.
“We took out four of his guys in the foyer,” Marcus whispered. “Sal’s bleeding bad, but he’s moving fast. He has an RPG in the trunk of his Mercedes. If they launch that at the boathouse, the boat won't stand a chance.”
“Stay down, Marcus. The ambulances are already en route.”
I didn't take the cliff path.
I took the service ATV parked in the utility shed, cut the headlights, and roared down the wooded perimeter trail that bordered the estate's western ridge. The engine screamed under the throttle as I tore through the underbrush, branches whipping across my face and shoulders.
Below, the black waters of Long Island Sound churned under a gathering autumn wind.
Through the trees, I caught the flickering red glow of taillights. Sal’s black Mercedes had driven directly through the perimeter fence, skidding to a halt on the gravel apron fifty yards from the wooden boathouse.
Two heavily armed mercenaries jumped from the vehicle, moving toward the boathouse doors with suppressed carbines raised. Behind them, Sal stumbled out of the driver's seat, clutching his bleeding side, dragging a heavy green shoulder-fired rocket launcher from the trunk.
“Blow the doors!” Sal shouted over the roar of the surf. “Don't let that boat clear the slipway!”
I didn't slow the ATV down.
I locked the throttle forward with a heavy tie-down strap, steered the four-wheeler directly toward the rear of the Mercedes, and rolled off into the wet grass at forty miles per hour.
The ATV slammed into the Mercedes’s rear quarter panel with the force of an artillery shell.
The impact triggered the fuel tank of the ATV, erupting into a massive fireball that lit the rocky shoreline in violent shades of orange and crimson. The explosion threw one of the mercenaries into the crashing surf and slammed Sal violently against the gravel embankment.
I came out of the shadows like a wraith.
The surviving mercenary spun around, his carbine swinging toward the flames. I fired twice from twenty yards away. Both rounds found their mark, dropping him instantly onto the stones.
Sal was crawling across the gravel, his fingers clawing toward the discarded rocket launcher. His clothes were charred, his breath coming in wet, bubbling gasps from his punctured lung.
I walked up behind him, kicked the rocket launcher twenty feet into the freezing Atlantic surf, and pressed the hot barrel of my Kimber against the back of his neck.
“Look at me, Sal,” I commanded.
Sal rolled onto his back with a groan of pure agony. The firelight played across his twisted, soot-covered face. He looked up at me, coughing up dark blood, but the venom in his eyes hadn't diminished.
“Go ahead, Dom,” Sal wheezed, a bloody sneer touching his lips. “Pull the trigger. You think this ends with me? The Commission knows everything. The Morettis know everything. You’re finished in New York.”
“The Commission will receive the audio recordings of you selling family operations to federal agents,” I said coldly. “By midnight, your name will be erased from every book in the Five Families. You won't even get a grave, Sal. You’ll be remembered as a rat who stole from his brothers and murdered a mother in front of her babies.”
Sal’s sneer vanished, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated terror of a man who realized his legacy was about to be utterly annihilated.
“Dom… please,” Sal choked out, raising a trembling, bloody hand. “Thirty years… we were brothers…”
“My brother died fourteen months ago,” I said. “Outside a preschool in Garden City.”
I pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed once across the churning waters of the Sound, then faded into the roar of the incoming tide.
A hundred yards down the wooden pier, the twin engines of the Cigarette boat sputtered, then roared to life with a deep, thunderous vibration.
May you like
I lowered my weapon, turned my back on the burning wreckage, and began walking down the dock toward the sound of my daughters' voices.
***
