Chapter 11 - THE UNDERBOSS'S REVENGE
Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready to blow Marcus’s head off.
“Don't shoot,” Marcus coughed, stumbling into the dim light of the bunker. He collapsed onto his knees, clutching his bleeding stomach. His tactical suit was shredded, covered in dirt and dried blood.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn't execute you right now, Marcus,” Vincent snarled, keeping the rifle aimed squarely at the traitor’s chest. “You sold my family to Carmine. You drove the car that killed Elena.”
“Because Carmine betrayed me, Vincent,” Marcus gasped, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. “When I went to the steel mill to find the decoy drive, Carmine’s men ambushed me. They slaughtered my crew. I barely made it out alive. I’ve been hiding in the tunnels of this mill for two days, bleeding out.”
Clara stood behind Vincent, her heart pounding. The man who had held a gun to her head just a week ago was now begging for his life at their feet.
“Why should I care?” Vincent asked coldly. “You’re a dead man either way.”
“Because I know Hector Moretti’s weakness,” Marcus groaned, looking up at Vincent with desperate, fading eyes. “I know where the Cartel keeps their regional cash reserves. Fifty million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds. It’s their entire operating budget for the Midwest.”
Vincent didn't lower his weapon, but his eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”
“Hector’s private compound,” Marcus breathed heavily. “He operates out of an old, fortified meatpacking plant on the south side. It’s guarded by thirty heavily armed sicarios. But I know the security codes. I know the blind spots in their camera grid.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Vincent demanded.
Marcus let out a bitter, wet laugh. “Because Hector put a bounty on my head after Carmine fell. If I die, I want to take those cartel bastards to hell with me. I want revenge, Vincent. And you need leverage. You take their fifty million, you can buy your family’s freedom.”
Vincent stared at his former underboss. It was a suicide mission. Assaulting a cartel compound with a two-man team was madness. But it was the only option they had left.
“Clara,” Vincent said, not taking his eyes off Marcus. “Check his wound. See if he can walk.”
Clara hesitated, looking at the man who had struck her. But she knew they needed him. She grabbed a first-aid kit from their supplies and knelt beside Marcus. She quickly packed the bullet wound with gauze and wrapped it tightly in bandages.
“It’s a through-and-through,” Clara reported, her hands covered in his blood. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but no major organs were hit. He can walk, but he can't fight.”
“He doesn't need to fight,” Vincent said, pulling a spare handgun from his tactical vest and handing it to Marcus. “He just needs to open the doors.”
Vincent turned to Clara. “Lock the bunker door behind us. Do not open it unless you hear my voice. If I’m not back by dawn... take the van and drive straight to the FBI headquarters. Tell them everything.”
“Come back to us, Vincent,” Clara whispered, tears welling in her eyes. She hugged him tightly, terrified this would be the last time she ever saw him.
“I will,” Vincent promised, kissing her deeply before turning away.
Vincent and Marcus left the bunker, moving silently through the shadows of the abandoned steel mill. They climbed into Marcus’s hidden, stolen sedan and drove toward the south side.
The meatpacking plant was a massive, windowless concrete fortress surrounded by high razor-wire fences. Guard towers armed with floodlights and snipers watched the perimeter.
Marcus parked the car in a dark alleyway three blocks away.
“The drainage tunnels,” Marcus grunted, pointing to a rusted grate in the street. “They lead directly beneath the plant’s main processing floor. The cameras don't cover the basement grates.”
Vincent hauled the heavy grate open. They dropped down into the foul-smelling darkness of the sewer system, wading through knee-deep, freezing water.
They moved silently for twenty minutes until they reached a heavy iron ladder leading up to a maintenance hatch.
Marcus pulled a small hacking device from his pocket, hooking it to the electronic lock on the hatch. A few seconds later, the light turned green.
Vincent pushed the hatch open.
They climbed up into the dark, freezing meat locker of the plant. Huge sides of beef hung from heavy metal hooks on tracks.
“The vault is on the second floor, in Hector’s office,” Marcus whispered, gripping his stomach in pain.
They crept through the hanging meat, the cold seeping into their bones. Suddenly, the heavy metal door of the locker swung open. Two cartel sicarios walked in, laughing and smoking cigarettes, assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He stepped out from behind a hanging slab of beef, firing two suppressed shots in rapid succession. Both men dropped to the freezing floor instantly, dead before they realized they were under attack.
Vincent dragged their bodies into the shadows.
They moved into the main hallway, taking the industrial stairs up to the second floor.
The corridor leading to Hector’s office was heavily guarded. Four men in tactical gear stood outside a reinforced steel door.
“I can't take four of them quietly,” Vincent muttered, ducking behind a corner.
“I’ll distract them,” Marcus said, his face pale and sweating profusely. “It’s the least I can do for Elena.”
Before Vincent could stop him, Marcus stepped out into the hallway, raising his handgun and firing loudly into the ceiling.
“HEY!” Marcus roared.
The four guards instantly spun around, raising their rifles and opening fire.
Marcus took three bullets to the chest, collapsing backward onto the linoleum, buying Vincent the crucial three seconds he needed.
Vincent leaned around the corner, his assault rifle roaring to life. He cut down the four guards in a hail of armor-piercing bullets, clearing the hallway in seconds.
Vincent ran over to Marcus. The underboss was bleeding out rapidly, a bloody smile on his face.
“Go,” Marcus gasped, his eyes fading. “Burn them down, Vincent.”
Marcus’s head lolled to the side. He was dead.
Vincent didn't have time to mourn a traitor who had found redemption in his final moments. He kicked open the reinforced steel door of the office and stormed inside.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, casually sipping a glass of tequila, was Hector Moretti.
Hector didn't reach for a weapon. He simply smiled at the heavily armed mafia boss standing in his doorway.
“Impressive, Vincent,” Hector applauded slowly. “You breached my fortress. But you are too late.”
Vincent raised his rifle, aiming directly at Hector’s head. “Where are the bearer bonds, Hector? I’m taking the fifty million, and I’m buying my family’s life.”
Hector laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that chilled Vincent to the bone.
“There are no bearer bonds in this office, Vincent,” Hector smirked, pointing to the massive, open steel vault behind his desk.
The vault was completely empty.
“Marcus lied to you,” Hector chuckled. “Or rather, I lied to Marcus before he escaped the steel mill. I knew he would run to you. I knew he would feed you this location to seek revenge.”
Vincent’s heart completely stopped. It was a trap.
“If the money isn't here...” Vincent whispered, sheer terror flooding his veins.
“Then why did I want you to leave the steel mill?” Hector finished, his smile widening into a terrifying grin.
Hector reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, remote monitor. He tossed it onto the desk for Vincent to see.
The screen displayed a live camera feed.
It was the bunker beneath the steel mill.
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And standing in the center of the bunker, surrounded by a dozen heavily armed cartel sicarios, were Clara, her father, and little Sophie.
“You left them undefended, Vincent,” Hector purred. “And now, you are going to watch them die.”
