Chapter 3 - Crossfire in the Sub-Basement"Don't move, Falco," a gravelly voice echoed from the gloom near the structural support columns.
Two men stepped out from the shadows, their faces hidden behind dark tactical balaclavas. Both wore heavy black raincoats slick with Philadelphia slush, and both held Remington 12-gauge shotguns leveled squarely at Adrien’s chest.
"Vance," one of the gunmen muttered, his eyes darting toward me with a predatory grin visible through the ski mask. "And the little secretary. Boss is going to pay a heavy bounty for both of you. Drop the piece, Falco, or we turn your girlfriend into pink mist right now."
My breath caught in my throat. My knees trembled so violently I thought I would collapse onto the oil-stained concrete. This is it, I thought. This is where it ends. A stray pellet, a quick death in a parking garage beneath a fraudulent shipping company.
Adrien didn't drop his gun.
In fact, his posture relaxed—a subtle, terrifying shift that I had learned to recognize as the moment he decided someone was going to die.
"You boys work for Dante Moretti, don't you?" Adrien asked, his voice conversational, almost bored.
"Shut your mouth and drop the—"
Adrien moved with terrifying speed.
He didn't aim for the man threatening him; instead, with a flick of his wrist, he fired twice through the driver’s side window of the armored Mercedes. The glass shattered, and the vehicle's automated security protocol kicked in, blasting a deafening high-frequency siren and dropping steel blast plates over the garage exits.
The gunmen flinched, their attention fracturing for a fraction of a second toward the noise.
That fraction was all Adrien needed.
He lunged sideways, grabbing my waist and tackling me hard behind the concrete barrier of a structural pillar just as both shotguns roared. Pellets chewed into the concrete inches above our heads, sending a shower of sharp stone fragments raining over my back.
Bang. Bang.
Two deafening returns shots echoed through the garage.
Silence followed, broken only by the high-pitched wail of the Mercedes security system and the wet sound of heavy objects hitting the floor.
"Stay here," Adrien commanded, his breathing controlled, his hand steady as he reloaded his pistol with a practiced click.
He crept around the edge of the pillar. I pressed myself flat against the cold concrete, my hands clamped over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard the scuff of a boot, a low groan, and then a heavy thud.
"Clear," Adrien's voice called out a moment later.
I opened my eyes and stood up on shaking legs. The two masked men lay motionless on the wet concrete, dark pools of blood spreading rapidly beneath their coats. One of them still clutched a shotgun with lifeless fingers.
I gagged, turning away as bile rose in my throat. I had crunched numbers for criminals, I had audited falsified invoices for arms shipments, but I had never stood inches away from execution-style murder.
Adrien walked over, kicking one of the shotguns away with his polished shoe. He pulled out a small, specialized tactical knife and sliced the balaclava off the face of the lead gunman.
I gasped.
I recognized him. It was Salvatore, one of the senior security enforcers from the fourth-floor shipping department—a man who had smiled and handed me a cup of coffee from the breakroom just yesterday morning.
"A mole," Adrien murmured, his voice laced with ice. "Moretti didn't just breach our perimeter from the outside. He bought someone from the inside."
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Adrien stood up, his dark eyes meeting mine across the carnage of the garage. He didn't look at me like I was a burden anymore. He looked at me like I was the most dangerous piece on his board.
"Get in the car, Norah," he said, opening the rear door of the armored SUV. "We're going to the compound in Chestnut Hill. And God help anyone who tries to stop us."
