Chapter 8 - THE GHOST OF DANTE LEONEBefore Sal could pull the trigger, a deafening screech of tires echoed from the paved access road above the embankment.
Headlights sliced through the misty morning air, blinding the remaining mafia enforcers. A convoy of unmarked federal vehicles—sirens screaming, blue and red lights flashing—barreled down the grassy slope, cutting off Sal’s Navigators and pinning the mob boss in a crossfire of blinding illumination.
"FBI! Federal Law Enforcement! Drop your weapons!" a voice boomed through a loudhailer from the lead SUV.
Sal froze, his revolver still pointed at Brutus. His face drained of all color. The federal agents poured out of the vehicles, tactical gear gleaming, automatic rifles raised and locked onto the syndicate members.
From the passenger seat of the lead federal vehicle stepped a tall, silver-haired man in a federal marshal’s windbreaker. He looked older, weathered by years of undercover work, but his eyes were sharp as broken glass.
It was federal investigator Marcus Vance—the man who had spent ten years trying to bring down Sal Vane’s syndicate by locating the missing Leone family ledgers.
Marcus stopped ten feet from Sal, lowering his badge. "It’s over, Salvatore. The warrants are signed. The union accounts have been frozen."
Sal lowered his revolver slowly, a bitter, defeated smirk touching his lips. "You're too late, Marcus. You'll never find the bearer bonds. Dante took them to the grave."
"Did he?" Marcus asked quietly.
Marcus turned his gaze away from Sal and looked directly down the embankment toward Brutus.
The massive mastiff stood over a groaning, neutralized Big Mike, his chest heaving, his amber eyes locked onto Marcus. Slowly, deliberately, Brutus walked over to a rotting oak stump near the edge of the water, lowered his massive head, and began scratching frantically at the exposed roots.
Marcus nodded to two tactical agents. "Check the roots of that tree."
May you like
The agents rushed over, pulled away the rotting wood and thick river silt, and uncovered a heavy, waterproof military-grade steel ammo case. One of the agents unlatched the lid and pulled out stacks of untraceable bearer bonds and digital drive ledgers—the exact evidence needed to put Sal Vane away for the rest of his natural life.
Sal let out a hollow, broken sound, dropping his revolver into the mud as federal agents swarmed him, slamming cuffs onto his wrists and shoving him toward the back of a cruiser.
