Chapter 7 - The Code of Whitechapel
The standoff inside the narrow brick tunnel was suffocating. The air was too thin, filled with the scent of old iron, coal dust, and the sharp, chemical ozone of the automatic rifles. Marco didn't drop the wrench immediately; his eyes darted from the guards to the heavy iron door behind him, calculating the inches between life and a funeral.
"Victoria," Marco said, his voice remaining level, almost conversational. "You’re making a big mistake. The Don is already in the air. He knows about the pillow. He knows about the veterinary medicine."
Victoria’s face didn't falter. If anything, the news that Dominic was aware of the plot seemed to solidify the murderous resolve in her eyes. "Then we don't have twelve hours, do we, Harrison? We have about two."
She turned to the primary guard—a young man named Leo whose father had been an enforcer for the syndicate before him. "Leo, clear them out. The nurse, the old man, and the boy. We’ll report that the basement collapsed during the storm. A structural failure of the old foundations. No one will find them until we’ve already cleared the accounts in Zurich."
Leo hesitated, his finger resting on the trigger guard of his carbine. He looked at Arthur, who was staring out from behind Fiona’s skirt with wide, innocent blue eyes. "Mrs. Costello... the Don said the boy was off-limits. He said if anything happened to Arthur while he was in New York, we’d all—"
"The Don is finished, you idiot!" Victoria screamed, her control finally shattering, her face turning an ugly, veiny purple in the flashlight beam. "Do you think he survives a federal investigation into his logistics lines when Harrison hands over the shipping manifests? I run this estate now! Shoot them!"
Before Leo could make a choice, the heavy iron door behind Fiona began to vibrate. The two remaining deadbolts didn't slide back; they were blown entirely out of their housings with a pair of deafening, synchronized explosions that filled the tunnel with white smoke and the scream of tearing metal.
The iron door collapsed forward, crashing onto the concrete floor with a sound like a thunderclap.
Through the smoke stepped three massive men in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by ballistic helmets, their weapons already raised. It was Gennaro and his sons, the old guard of the Costello family who took their orders from only one man.
"Whitechapel!" Marco roared, grabbing Fiona and Arthur and slamming them down onto the floor behind the fallen iron door.
The tunnel erupted into a violent, deafening crossfire. The younger guards, caught in the narrow space without cover, were cut down in a fraction of a second, their automatic weapons clattering against the bricks. Dr. Reed shrieked, dropping his leather medical bag as a round caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around until he collapsed into the coal dust, clutching his bleeding arm.
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Victoria didn't scream. She froze, her flashlight dropping from her hand, its blue beam illuminating the boots of Gennaro as he walked through the smoke, his shotgun leveled directly at her forehead.
"The Don sends his regards, Mrs. Costello," Gennaro said, his voice entirely flat beneath his helmet.
