Chapter 4 - The Back Bay Siege
The Back Bay neighborhood of Boston was quiet at 6:15 A.M., wrapped in a thick, grey blanket of morning fog. Elegant brownstones lined the cobblestone streets, their gas lamps flickering against the wet pavement.
Four blacked-out SUVs glided silently down Commonwealth Avenue, dousing their headlights as they turned onto Claire’s street.
Inside the lead vehicle, Vincent checked his tactical vest, tightening the straps over his crisp black shirt. Beside him, Claire sat with a ear-piece receiver fitted into her ear, watching a live floor plan of her apartment building on a lap-held monitor.
“I told you to stay at the estate,” Vincent grumbled, glaring at her.
“I’m the only one who knows the combination to the mechanical panel, Vincent,” she said calmly, adjusting her sling. “Your men would tear down the wall trying to find it and waste fifteen minutes. We don't have fifteen minutes.”
Vincent looked at her, exasperated, but a glint of fierce pride shone in his eyes. “Stay behind me at all times. If a single bullet flies in your direction, you drop to the floor.”
“Understood, boss.”
Dominic’s voice came through the comms. “Vince, we’ve got eyes on the building. Two spotters in a dark sedan out front. Three men inside the lobby. They’ve already bypassed the front security lock.”
“Contractors,” Vincent said grimly. “Vance hired outside muscle. Non-family. Take out the street spotters silently.”
“Copy that.”
Through the tinted windows, Claire watched as two of Vincent’s men approached the dark sedan from the blind spots. There were two muffled thuds, the quick flash of silenced muzzles, and then the sedan fell completely silent.
“Move in,” Vincent ordered.
The team breached the rear service entrance of the brownstone. Vincent moved with a terrifying, predator-like fluidity, his silenced submachine gun held low, his eyes scanning every shadow. Claire walked right behind him, protected on all sides by four heavily armed Moretti enforcers.
They took the stairs to the fourth floor in absolute silence.
As they reached the landing outside Claire’s apartment—Unit 4B—the sound of wood splintering echoed down the hallway.
Two men in tactical gear were using a heavy crowbar to pry open her heavy oak front door. Inside the apartment, drawers were already being pulled out and smashed on the floor.
Vincent didn't wait. He stepped into the hallway, raised his weapon, and fired four quick, suppressed shots.
Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft.
The two men near the door dropped instantly to the carpeted floor without making a sound.
Vincent signaled his team, and they cleared the interior of the apartment within eight seconds. Three more attackers inside were neutralized before they even had time to raise their weapons.
“Clear!” Dominic called out from the bedroom.
Vincent stepped over a fallen body in the doorway, guiding Claire inside.
Her beautiful, carefully decorated apartment was in ruins. Her hand-painted vases were shattered, her bookshelves overturned, her corporate files scattered across the Persian rug like dead leaves.
Claire let out a small, quiet sigh. “My grandmother’s tea set...”
Vincent looked at the broken porcelain on the floor, his eyes darkening further. “I’ll buy you a house in Beacon Hill, Claire. Everything in it hand-crafted from Paris.”
“Let’s just get the drive,” she said softly.
She walked over to the mahogany desk in the corner of her study. Ignoring the shattered computer monitors, she knelt on the floor, pressed her hand against the baseboard near the electrical outlet, and pushed a small, invisible spring latch.
A hidden compartment popped open with a soft click.
Inside lay a small, metallic drive the size of a thumb, glowing with a faint blue encryption light.
Claire pulled it out, holding it up. “It’s intact. Eight million dollars, plus the master audit logs showing Vance’s forged signatures.”
Before Vincent could reach for it, Dominic stepped into the study, his face pale.
“Vince, look out the front window. Now.”
Vincent walked over to the bay window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain an inch.
Down on Commonwealth Avenue, six heavy black vans had just pulled up, blocking both ends of the street. Over two dozen men armed with military-grade assault rifles stepped out, taking tactical positions behind the vehicles.
And stepping out of the middle van was Arthur Vance.
He was sixty years old, wearing a tailored navy overcoat, his silver hair neatly slicked back. He held a bullhorn in his hand, looking up toward Claire’s fourth-floor window with an expression of cold, desperate arrogance.
“Vincent!” Vance’s amplified voice echoed through the foggy street, shaking the glass windows. “I know you’re up there! And I know you have the girl!”
Vincent’s hand tightened around the curtain. “The old fool brought a private mercenary army into Back Bay.”
“He’s cornered, Vince,” Dominic said, checking his ammo clips. “If those audit logs hit the federal court today, Vance is facing life in federal prison. He has nothing left to lose.”
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Down below, Vance raised the bullhorn again.
“Give me the girl and the hardware drive, Vincent!” Vance shouted, his voice dripping with venom. “Do it now, or I turn this entire building into a graveyard! You have sixty seconds!”
