Chapter 7 - The Ambush at SunsetThe red glow of the digital clock on the dash of Moretti’s bulletproof Lincoln Navigator read 6:42 PM as it rolled past the security gates of the Lakewood K9 facility.
Inside the back seat, Lena sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a one-hundred-and-forty-pound blind mastiff whose head was resting heavily across her thighs. Nero’s breathing was deep and rhythmic, the violent spasms of the last eight days completely gone, replaced by the heavy calm of an animal that knew, with absolute certainty, that his watch was finally over.
In the front seat, Moretti stared straight ahead through the tinted windshield, his fingers drumming a slow, methodical tattoo against the leather armrest.
"We're not going back to your apartment in Albany," Moretti said without turning around.
"I have a shift at the logistics hub tomorrow morning," Lena said, her voice flat.
"No, you don't," Moretti replied calmly. "Apex Logistics is a front company I set up five years ago to keep track of your father’s surviving family. You haven't worked a legitimate delivery route in three years, Lena. You've been a ghost living on a twenty-four-dollar salary because you refused to look behind the curtain."
Lena didn't answer. She looked out the window at the dark expanse of the Hudson River sliding past the highway, the gray water reflecting the dying embers of a blood-red sunset.
"Director Boon?" she asked quietly.
"Boon is currently on a private flight to a very nice, very permanent vacation spot in the Cayman Islands," Moretti said. "He won't be talking to the state police, and he won't be writing any more euthanasia reports."
Suddenly, the Lincoln’s secure satellite radio crackled to life. It wasn't music or a news broadcast. It was a harsh, rhythmic burst of static followed by a synthesized digital tone—the emergency channel reserved for Moretti's private security detail.
Moretti’s hand flashed out, snapping up the microphone. "Report."
"Boss, we've got a problem," a tense voice barked through the speaker, punctuated by the sharp, rhythmic pop-pop-pop of automatic gunfire in the background. "Route 9 North overpass. Two unmarked black SUVs boxed us in thirty seconds ago. They're not local cops, Mr. Moretti. They're carrying tactical gear with federal markings, but they're shooting to kill. They want the dog."
Moretti’s face didn't change expression. His eyes turned into chips of blue ice.
"How many?"
"Four vehicles total. They've got us pinned against the guardrail near the old toll plaza. We're returning fire, but—"
CRACK.
A deafening explosion echoed through the radio speaker, followed by the sound of rending metal and glass shattering into a thousand pieces.
Before Moretti could bark another order, the Lincoln Navigator lurched violently to the left as a high-caliber round pierced the rear quarter panel, whining off the reinforced steel plating with a sound like a dentist's drill hitting bone.
"Get down!" Moretti roared, drawing a heavy Beretta from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion.
Lena didn't scream. She didn't drop into a ball.
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With the cold, instinctive calm she had learned on her grandmother's farm when the winter winds tore the roof off the barn, she threw her arms around Nero’s massive neck, pressing her face against the thick black fur just as a second armor-piercing round blew through the rear windshield, showering the leather interior with glittering crystal dust.
The Lincoln slammed on its brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt as the driver fought to keep the heavy vehicle from rolling over the concrete embankment toward the freezing river below.
