Chapter 8 - The Siege of Main Street
A flare went off outside, flooding the rain-swept street with an eerie, violent red light.
THUMP!
A Molotov cocktail smashed through the second-story window of the bakery. Flames erupted instantly across the dry wooden beams, spreading rapidly through the old roof.
Outside, eight Boston hitmen surrounded the building, their automatic rifles raised, waiting for anyone to run out the front or back doors.
Marco Castellano stood across the street under an umbrella, laughing hysterically as the flames began to consume the structure.
"Burn, cousin, burn!" Marco shouted over the sound of thunder and roaring flames.
Suddenly, the heavy iron cellar doors on the side of the bakery blew outward in a blinding burst of fire and smoke.
Before the hitmen could react, a phantom moved through the dark fog.
Rocco emerged from the smoke like a creature born from fire. He carried a heavy 12-gauge tactical shotgun in his right hand and a combat knife in his left.
BOOM!
The heavy shotgun roared, sending a spray of lead through the chest of the nearest hitman, blasting him backward into the rain-slicked street.
"He's outside! He's outside!" a hitman screamed into his radio.
Rocco ducked behind a heavy iron dump truck as a hail of automatic gunfire tore through the night, metal hitting metal with deafening sparks.
Rocco didn't falter. He knew every inch of this street now. He moved with terrifying efficiency—pivoting around the rear of the truck, firing two precise shots that dropped two more gunmen into the wet gravel.
He slid across the hood of a parked police cruiser, driving his combat knife into the shoulder of a third hitman, disarming him mid-stride, ripping the assault rifle from his hands, and using the weapon to clear the alleyway in three short, lethal bursts.
Within four minutes, seven of Marco’s eight hitmen lay dead or incapacitated in the rain.
Marco’s hysterical laughter vanished, replaced by wild, panting terror. He dropped his umbrella, pulled his silver revolver, and began frantically sprinting down Main Street toward Mayor Voss’s pickup truck parked near the bank.
"Marco!" Rocco’s voice boomed through the quiet, thunderous night like a judgment from above.
Marco froze in his tracks, fifty feet away, slowly turning around.
Rocco walked out from the dark alley, stepping through the burning embers falling from the bakery roof. He tossed the empty assault rifle onto the street, stepping toward his cousin with empty, open hands.
"It’s over, Marco," Rocco said, his voice cold and steady.
Marco’s hands shook violently as he pointed his revolver at Rocco’s chest. "Stay back! Stay back, Rocco! Dad ordered it! Not me! Dad told me to kill you!"
"I know," Rocco said softly, continuing his slow, unhurried march forward. "Gino killed my father thirty years ago. He destroyed this town. And he sent you here to die for his sins."
"I'll shoot you!" Marco shrieked, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I swear to God I'll kill you!"
Rocco didn't stop. He walked straight into the barrel of the gun until the cold steel rested directly against the center of his forehead.
"Pull the trigger, Marco," Rocco whispered, looking into his cousin’s terrified, tear-filled eyes. "Pull it and prove that you're just like your father."
Marco stared at Rocco’s face. He saw no fear. He saw no anger. He saw only an absolute, unyielding wall of strength that made him feel small, weak, and pathetic.
Marco’s finger trembled on the trigger for three agonizing seconds.
Then, with a broken sob, Marco dropped his gun onto the wet asphalt, falling to his knees in the rain, covering his face with his hands.
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Rocco looked down at his defeated cousin. He didn't strike him. He picked up the silver revolver from the street, checked the cylinder, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Get out of West Virginia, Marco," Rocco said quietly. "Tell Gino I'm coming to Boston."
