Chapter 5 - The First Breach
The attack came at 4:12 in the morning, when the snow was thickest and the city’s plows had abandoned the lower streets.
The monitor on the kitchen island didn't flash; it simply went black as the main power line to the building’s transformer was severed from the basement level. A second later, the backup generators kicked in with a low, vibrating hum, but the tactical overlay showed four thermal signatures moving through the service elevator shaft.
"Boss," Marco’s voice cracked through the encrypted earpiece. "We’ve got company. They didn't use the front gate. They came through the old meat rail from the adjacent building. It's Valenti’s cleaners."
Adrian didn't waste time with words. He grabbed Evelyn by the wrist, his grip firm but careful to avoid her raw skin, and pulled her toward the kitchen island. "Under the counter. There's a hydraulic release behind the wine rack. Press it and don't come out until you hear three clicks on the earpiece."
Evelyn looked at the black steel of his gun. "They have suppressed weapons, Adrian. They won't make noise."
"Neither will I," Adrian said.
The service door at the back of the loft exploded inward with a sharp, pneumatic huff.
The first soldier through the breach was wearing a gray tactical jacket with no insignias—standard issue for the Valenti family's off-the-books wet work. He didn't get two steps into the concrete room before Adrian drove a heavy iron stool into his knees, sending him crashing to the floor. Before the man could raise his weapon, Adrian fired twice through the center of his chest, the suppressed rounds sounding like a heavy book hitting a carpet.
The second soldier fired blindly through the drywall, the plaster splintering into a white cloud that filled the air.
Adrian rolled behind the zinc island, his side exploding in a fresh wave of white-hot pain as one of his stitches gave way. He could feel his own blood slicking the fabric of his trousers. He had two rounds left in the Walther.
"Behind the fridge!" a voice shouted from the cloud. "Flush him out!"
Suddenly, a heavy copper pot flew through the white dust, striking the second soldier square in the throat. He stumbled back, gasping, his weapon tilting toward the ceiling.
Evelyn hadn't stayed under the counter. She was crouching by the industrial stove, her blue eyes wide and cold as she gripped a heavy cast-iron skillet with both hands. She didn't look like an heiress; she looked like the creature that had survived ten winters in the dirt of Suffolk Street.
"Move!" she screamed at Adrian.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He stood up, leveled his weapon over the island, and put his final two rounds through the forehead of the distracted soldier.
The room went dead silent again, save for the hiss of a punctured water line in the drywall and the heavy, ragged breathing of two people who refused to become ghosts.
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Marco burst through the front door a second later, his weapon drawn, three of his own soldiers behind him. He took one look at the two bodies on the floor and the blood dripping from Adrian’s side, then looked at Evelyn, who was still holding the skillet like a shield.
"Get the cars," Adrian ordered, his voice cracking as he leaned his weight against the zinc counter. "They tracked us through the salon’s financial wire. Victor knows she's alive. We go to the offensive now."
