Chapter 58 - Blood on the Ice Pier
A heavy tactical boot stepped through the smoke and splintered wood.
The operator didn't hesitate. His weapon was raised, laser already painting the center of my chest.
I didn't think. I threw myself forward, ducking under the line of fire as a burst of 9mm submachine fire shredded the hood of the Audi behind me. I closed the distance in a fraction of a heartbeat, driving my combat knife upward through the vulnerable gap beneath his ballistic vest, right into his lower abdomen.
The soldier gasped, his breath hot and wet against my face. I twisted the blade, grabbed the barrel of his weapon, and shoved him violently backward into the second breacher entering through the doorway.
Both men tumbled to the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs and tactical nylon.
I drew my Glock with my left hand and fired twice into the chest of the second man before he could bring his rifle to bear. The suppressor coughed two hollow thuds. The second man went limp instantly, his helmet clattering against the concrete.
The first man, bleeding profusely from his gut, reached for his sidearm. I stepped on his wrist, pinning it to the floor with enough force to crack the bone, and pressed my gun barrel against his visor.
"Who sent the boat?" I snarled. "Anthony Vance is dead! Who is on the loudspeaker?!"
The man grinned through teeth stained with dark arterial blood. A bloody bubble formed at the corner of his lips. "The... the Patriarch... never dies. He's on the water. He wants... the carrier and the product. You're already dead, tracker."
I pulled the trigger.
The report was muffled by his helmet. Silence fell over the garage, broken only by the low, guttural idling of the boat out on the lake and the steady, terrified crying of Grace.
"Marcus!" Khloe yelled from the driver's side of the car.
She had already loaded Grace into the car seat fastened in the back, locking the harness with shaking, white-knuckled precision. But she hadn't gotten behind the wheel. Instead, she stood by the rear bumper, staring at the security monitor mounted on the garage wall.
The screen showed the villa's private dock.
Under the cold glare of the searchlight, a fourth man had stepped off the boat.
He was not wearing tactical gear. He wore a tailored cashmere overcoat, charcoal gray, with a silk scarf wrapped around his throat. In his right hand, he carried a polished ebony cane with a silver wolf's head handle.
His face was heavily bandaged along the jawline, fresh pink skin grafts visible beneath thick layers of sterile ointment. But the cold, dead eyes—the piercing, slate-gray eyes of Anthony Vance—were unmistakable.
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He had survived the fire at Lake Winnipesaukee. He was scarred, butchered by the flames, but he was breathing.
And behind him, dragged by two armed men across the frost-covered wooden planks, was Isabella.
