Chapter 5 - Fire and Fury
The explosion ripped through the western wall of the warehouse, shattering windows and showering the concrete floor in a hail of debris and blinding white light.
Chaos erupted instantly.
My men swarmed the warehouse from three different angles, returning heavy suppressive fire that shattered the Russian formation. I drew my secondary weapon, double-tapping the two guards closest to Sloan before they could react.
Sloan screamed as a stray bullet grazed the ropes binding her wrists, but I was already there, slicing through the industrial nylon with my hunting knife.
“Can you run?” I demanded, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her to her feet.
“Yes! Get me a gun!” she panted, her eyes fierce.
I tossed her a Glock 19 from my tactical rig. She caught it with the familiarity of someone who had spent summers at the Moretti family shooting ranges in upstate New York.
Across the burning warehouse, Viktor Rostov was dragging himself toward a docked cigarette boat at the rear pier, desperate to escape.
“Cover me!” I yelled to Sloan.
I sprinted across the smoking floor, dodging shattered crates and flying shrapnel. Viktor turned, raising his weapon to fire, but a sharp crack echoed behind me—Sloan fired twice, catching Viktor in the thigh and spinning him around.
He hit the ground hard, dropping his gun.
I reached him in three strides, grabbed him by the collar of his expensive wool coat, and hoisted him off the ground, slamming him against the metal railing overlooking the freezing dark waters of the Hudson.
“You destroyed my wedding. You threatened my family. You hunted my daughter,” I whispered, each word dripping with ice. “Any last words, Viktor?”
Viktor coughed up blood, a defiant sneer twisting his features. “You can’t kill me, Moretti. The syndicate... they’ll never stop hunting you. There’s always another boss.”
“Let them come,” I said.
I let go.
Viktor plummeted into the dark, freezing waters below, swallowed instantly by the black current.
I turned around. The warehouse fire was roaring now, sirens wailing in the distance as New York’s finest—and the units on my payroll—converged on the docks.
Sloan stood amidst the smoke and ash, holding the Glock down at her side, her hair wild, her cashmere sweater stained with soot and blood. She looked breathtakingly dangerous.
I walked over to her, pulling her into my arms. She melted against my chest, her trembling hands gripping my jacket.
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“Is it over?” she whispered into my shoulder.
“It’s just beginning,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s go home to our daughter.”
