Chapter 3 - THE ESCAPE FROM BEL AIRThe main courtyard of the Torino estate was a warzone.
Two dark blue Yukon SUVs had slammed through the iron security gates, tearing up the pristine manicured lawns that Elena had spent three years watching the groundskeepers maintain. Automatic gunfire erupted into the air, chewing through the glass front doors of the mansion and tearing the priceless oil paintings off the foyer walls.
Vincent shoved Marcus down the grand marble staircase ahead of him, using his traitorous nephew as a human shield. Elena moved right alongside them, her gun barked rhythmically as she picked off a shooter attempting to breach the eastern terrace.
BANG! BANG!
“Left side, clear!” Elena yelled over the deafening roar of automatic weapons. “We need to reach the underground garage!”
Isabella was trailing behind them, her silk robe torn, clutching her shoulder where a stray piece of glass had cut her skin. “Vincent! Don't leave me! Please! I was forced into this!” she shrieked, her voice echoing in the vast, marble-tiled foyer.
Vincent didn't even look back. “You made your bed, Isabella. Go sleep in it.”
He threw Marcus down the last three steps. The young man hit the floor hard, groaning as he rolled onto his side. Vincent kicked Marcus’s gun away and turned toward the hidden metal door tucked behind the wine cellar entrance.
He punched in a seven-digit code on the key pad. The heavy steel door hummed and slid open, revealing a lit concrete tunnel that led deep beneath the hillside property.
“In!” Vincent barked at Elena.
Suddenly, a heavy burst of gunfire chewed through the wooden banister above them. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel. Isabella screamed as a volley of bullets ripped through the floor near her feet.
Marcus, seeing his chance in the chaos, lunged forward from the floor, reaching for a dropped handgun near the foot of the stairs.
“Vincent, look out!” Elena screamed.
Vincent turned on a dime. He didn't use his gun. He stepped into Marcus’s reach, caught his nephew’s wrist, twisted it back with a stomach-churning SNAP, and drove his knee straight into the young man’s ribs. Marcus gasped for air, dropping to his knees, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle.
“I raised you,” Vincent growled, leaning down so his face was inches from Marcus’s tear-streaked eyes. “I gave you everything. And you sold me out for scrap metal.”
Vincent didn't kill him. He pulled Marcus up by his collar and threw him bodily toward the advancing Russian hitmen who were flooding through the front doors. The mercenaries hesitated for a split second, confused by the body flying toward them—and that split second was all Vincent and Elena needed.
They slammed the heavy steel bunker door shut behind them, sealing off the foyer.
The deadbolts slammed into place with heavy mechanical thuds. Inside the tunnel, the deafening sound of gunfire was instantly reduced to a faint, metallic thrum.
Elena slumped against the concrete wall, panting heavily, her face covered in soot and sweat. She looked at Vincent, who stood quietly in the center of the tunnel, staring down at his bloody knuckles.
“You left your wife up there,” Elena said, her eyes searching his face.
“My wife died twenty minutes ago,” Vincent replied, his voice cold, hollow, devoid of warmth. “The woman up there is just a ghost wearing her face.”
He walked down the concrete ramp toward a custom-built, matte-black Mercedes-AMG GT Coupe sitting under bright fluorescent lights. The car was reinforced with B7 level armor plating, run-flat tires, and bulletproof glass.
Vincent reached into a magnetic pocket under the workbench, pulled out the primary key fob, and tossed it to Elena.
“You drive,” Vincent said.
Elena caught the keys in mid-air, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re trusting me with the wheel?”
“You’re the only person in this house who hasn't shot at me tonight,” Vincent said, sliding into the passenger seat and pulling a heavy tactical shotgun from the custom rack between the seats. “Besides, if your Feds want me alive, you’re going to have to drive like hell to get us out of this zip code.”
Elena jumped into the driver's seat, hit the ignition button, and the V8 twin-turbo engine roared to life like an angry beast echoing through the concrete chamber.
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She slammed the gear shift into drive, looked at Vincent, and pressed her foot flat against the floorboards.
The Mercedes surged forward, tearing down the escape tunnel toward the light at the end of the hill.
