Chapter 5 - Blood and ConcreteThe first mercenary never even saw the muzzle flash.
The 9mm round caught him squarely in the center of his tactical vest, spinning him off balance into the shattered remains of the glass coffee table.
The second and third operatives returned fire instantly, chewing up the mahogany desk and splintering the expensive bookshelves into a storm of flying wood chips. Gabriel dropped into a combat slide behind the heavy oak bar in the corner of the penthouse, the air thick with the acrid stench of cordite and burnt gunpowder.
Click-clack.
He ejected his empty magazine, slammed a fresh one home with lightning speed, and popped up from behind the bar, double-tapping the second mercenary before the man could adjust his sights.
The third operative—a hulking brute with a heavy Russian accent—charged forward, discarding his jammed rifle and drawing a combat knife from his thigh holster.
“Cross!” the brute roared, lunging over the sofa.
Gabriel didn't try to shoot. He holstered the pistol, stepped inside the man’s guard with brutal efficiency, and slammed the heavy brass base of a shattered desk lamp directly into the mercenary’s temple. The man dropped like a felled oak tree, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Silence descended on the penthouse once more, broken only by the crackle of distant flames from the lower floors and the rhythmic hum of the emergency generators.
Gabriel stood panting in the center of the carnage, wiping a streak of warm blood from a shallow graze on his cheek.
Before he could catch his breath, his satellite phone buzzed in his coat pocket.
He ripped it out and hit answer.
“Boss!” Dante shouted, his breathing ragged. “We held the lobby, but two extraction teams broke through the west alley! They’ve got Viktor Vance on the line—he says if you want your ex-wife and kids to survive the night, you meet him alone at the abandoned dry docks in Red Hook within forty minutes.”
Gabriel stared at the steel door of the panic room.
“Tell Vance I’m already on my way,” Gabriel whispered.
He walked over to the panic room door, knocked twice with his knuckles, and spoke the words that would seal his fate.
“Westchester rain.”
The heavy steel bolts hissed, and the door swung open. Claire stood in the doorway, her face stained with tears, holding all three boys tight against her chest.
“Gabriel...” she choked out.
“Listen to me, Claire,” Gabriel said, his voice entirely steady as he handed her a set of heavy keys and a secure satellite tracker. “Take the utility tunnel out to the sub-basement. My driver, Marcus, is waiting with the armored Suburban. He’ll take you to the safehouse in the Adirondacks.”
“And you?” Claire demanded, her eyes wide with sudden horror. “Where are you going?”
“To settle an account,” Gabriel said, leaning down to press a quick, fierce kiss to the top of Leo’s head—the little boy with the paper airplane—before standing up and turning toward the shattered elevator shaft.
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“Gabriel Cross!” Claire screamed over the wind whistling through the broken windows. “If you die tonight, I will never forgive you!”
Gabriel didn't look back.
