Chapter 3 - The Price of Loyalty
The two mercenaries paused five feet from our position, their heavy combat boots tracking wet mud across the clean concrete. One of them spat a glob of tobacco juice onto the floor, the dark stain landing inches from Nora’s boot.
“Place is a labyrinth,” the first man muttered, adjusting the strap of his suppressed carbine. “Vale’s out of his mind if he thinks the feds won’t trace these suppressors.”
“Vale’s running the show now,” the second man replied, his voice flat and indifferent. “Once the philanthropist has an ‘unfortunate accident’ in the basement, the board signs over the port authority contracts by morning. Easy money.”
They turned away, sweeping their flashlights toward the far corner of the generator room.
I didn't hesitate. I stepped out from behind the battery bank, raised the Walther, and placed two silent, devastating rounds into the back of the trailing mercenary's vest. He collapsed instantly without a sound.
Before his partner could spin around, Nora moved with terrifying speed. She closed the distance, swept the second man’s legs out from under him with a brutal roundhouse kick, and slammed the butt of her revolver into his temple. He went down hard, unconscious before he hit the concrete.
I stood over the fallen men, my chest heaving, the silk of my tuxedo jacket stained with hydraulic oil.
“You didn't have to kill the first one,” Nora whispered, her eyes sharp as she stripped the dead man's carbine and pocketed his spare magazines.
“I didn't plan on giving them the chance to scream,” I replied coldly, retrieving the tactical radio clipped to the dead man's vest.
I pressed the transmit button. The earpiece hissed with static before a familiar, smooth voice cut through the channel.
“Report. Sector four is supposed to be clear.”
It was Carmine. His voice sounded calm, collected, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was orchestrating a massacre three floors below a room full of politicians drinking champagne.
I didn't speak. I wanted him to hear the heavy, deliberate breathing of the man he thought was already dead.
“Hello?” Carmine’s tone shifted, a sudden edge of ice cutting through the electronic hum. “Who’s on this channel? Answer me.”
“The party’s getting a little loud down here, Carmine,” I said softly into the mic.
A heavy silence stretched across the frequency. For three seconds, the only sound was the low hum of the generators.
“Mateo,” Carmine breathed, genuine shock cracking his composure for the first time. “You stubborn bastard. I told you to stay upstairs.”
“You told a lot of lies tonight, old friend,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the dark corridor leading back toward the ballroom. “Starting with Elena.”
May you like
“Ah,” Carmine chuckled softly, a dark, chilling sound. “So the little maid found her tongue before she found the river. Pity. She was very thorough with the dusting. But Mateo... you’re down in the basement with a pistol and zero backup. Upstairs, I have seven hundred of the city’s most elite citizens eating out of my hand. If you step foot in that ballroom, who do you think they’re going to believe? The generous, brilliant philanthropist Carmine Vale, or a desperate man holding a smoking gun?”
The radio went dead with a click.
