Chapter 11 - THE COILED SNAKE
The armored convoy sped through the dark, winding roads of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
The rain lashed against the bulletproof glass of the SUV, turning the dense forest into a black, impenetrable wall.
I sat in the back seat, staring at the leather-bound journal in my hands. The coordinates to Rossi’s cartel vault were burned into my memory. Half a billion dollars. Enough to buy a small country, or tear down a mafia empire.
Dante sat in the passenger seat, gripping his assault rifle tight.
“Boss, we’re two miles out from the Rossi compound,” Dante reported over his shoulder. “They’ll have thermal scanners and snipers in the trees. If we approach unannounced, they’ll light us up with anti-tank missiles.”
“Stop the cars,” I ordered.
The convoy screeched to a halt in the middle of the empty, rain-slicked road.
I grabbed my secure satellite phone and dialed the number printed on the back of Rossi’s extortion letter.
It rang twice before a smooth, gravelly voice answered.
“You’re cutting it close, Dominic,” Don Rossi said. “You have twenty-four hours to step down. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“I’m two miles from your front gate, Rossi,” I said, my voice echoing loudly in the quiet SUV. “I didn't come to surrender.”
Rossi chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “You brought your little army to my fortress? You’re a fool, boy. My snipers already have thermal locks on your engines. I can turn your convoy into ash with a single word.”
“Do it,” I challenged, staring out into the dark trees. “Burn us. But if you do, the GPS dead-man’s switch on my server will automatically email the coordinates of the Pine Barrens Cartel Vault to the FBI, the DEA, and every rival cartel in Mexico.”
The line went dead silent.
The smug arrogance in Rossi’s breathing vanished entirely.
“Julian’s journal,” Rossi whispered, the shock evident in his old voice. “Victor told me he destroyed it.”
“Victor lied. Julian gave it to his girlfriend before he died. I have it in my hand, Rossi.”
I let the silence hang for five agonizing seconds.
“Call off your snipers,” I commanded, seizing the absolute authority. “Open the front gates. I’m coming in alone for a sit-down.”
“...Open the gates,” Rossi’s voice echoed faintly to someone in his room. Then he spoke into the phone. “Come alone, Dominic. Bring the journal.”
The massive iron gates of the Rossi compound groaned open as our SUV approached.
“Wait here,” I told Dante, stepping out into the freezing rain.
I walked up the long, illuminated driveway toward the sprawling stone mansion. Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries tracked my every move, red laser sights dancing across my chest.
I didn't flinch. I walked up the marble steps and pushed open the heavy oak doors.
The grand foyer was opulent, decorated with Renaissance art and ancient statues.
Don Rossi sat at a massive dining table in the center of the room. He was an ancient, frail man in a wheelchair, breathing through a nasal oxygen tube. But his eyes were sharp, entirely lucid, and venomous.
Standing behind him were ten elite guards holding suppressed rifles.
I walked to the table and tossed the leather-bound journal onto the polished wood.
“There it is,” I said. “The location of your cartel money.”
Rossi’s trembling, liver-spotted hands reached for the book. He opened it, his eyes scanning the decoded pages.
“Beautiful,” Rossi wheezed, a greedy smile touching his thin lips. He looked up at me. “You gave up your only leverage, Dominic. You really are a stupid boy.”
He raised his hand to signal his guards.
“Kill him.”
The guards raised their rifles.
“I wouldn't do that,” I said, not moving a muscle.
Rossi paused. “Why not?”
“Because that journal is a fake,” I said calmly.
Rossi frowned, looking down at the pages. “The cipher is perfect. The handwriting is Julian’s.”
“Julian wrote a lot of things before he died,” I said. “But he didn't write those coordinates. I had my tech guys forge those pages three hours ago.”
Rossi’s face flushed with anger. “Then where is the real location of my vault?”
“I don't know,” I lied smoothly. “Julian never cracked the location. But Victor Falcone did. That’s why Victor was transferring fifty million dollars into your blind trust. It wasn't Victor’s money. He was paying you a cut of your own cartel cash to keep the Commission off his back.”
Rossi stared at me, his brilliant, paranoid mind trying to piece the puzzle together.
“If you don't know where the vault is,” Rossi sneered, “then you have nothing to trade. You walked into your own grave.”
“I didn't come to trade for the vault, Rossi,” I said, taking a slow step backward toward the heavy oak doors. “I came to deliver a message from the Falcone captains you thought you bought off.”
Rossi frowned. “What message?”
I pulled a small detonator from my coat pocket.
“They didn't appreciate you stealing their dead boss’s money.”
I pressed the button.
A deafening explosion ripped through the Rossi compound.
But it didn't come from the mansion.
It came from the massive underground parking garage beneath the estate.
The floor violently shook. Alarms blared.
“What did you do?!” Rossi screamed, clutching the arms of his wheelchair in panic.
“I packed three of Victor’s captured armored cars with C4 and had Dante drive them into your subterranean garage while your snipers were focused on me at the front door,” I shouted over the chaos.
The structural pillars of the mansion began to groan and buckle.
The untouchable fortress of the Commission was collapsing from the foundation up.
“Kill him!” Rossi shrieked at his guards.
But the guards weren't aiming at me anymore. They were scrambling for the exits as the ceiling began to crack, raining plaster and dust down upon the opulent dining room.
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I didn't wait around to watch the empire fall.
I turned and sprinted out the heavy oak doors, diving down the marble steps into the freezing rain just as the east wing of the mansion pancaked inward with a catastrophic roar.
