Chapter 4 - Fire in the Harbor
The concussion of the first breaching charge shook the foundations of the estate, rattling glass panes across the medical suite and sending a shower of white dust down from the ceiling.
"Vance!" I roared into the comm-link clipped to my collar, swinging my legs over the edge of the examination table. "Status!"
“They’ve breached the outer perimeter! They’re using EMP grenades to fry our internal grid—power in the East Wing is down! Boss, you need to get to the reinforced panic bunker beneath the library right now!”
"Negative," I said, my voice cutting through Vance’s panic with absolute, razor-sharp finality. "Secure Leo and Lily in the secure vault. Do not let them out of your sight. If anyone tries to enter that vault, you shoot them in the head."
"And you, Mr. Marino?!"
I slid off the table. My feet hit the cold tile floor.
For eight years, gravity had been my enemy—a dead weight dragging me downward, a constant reminder of my captivity. But as my soles made flat, solid contact with the marble, a searing wave of electricity surged up through my arches, igniting my calves and locking my knees into place.
I swayed like a sapling in a hurricane, my hands gripping the edge of the stainless-steel table so hard my knuckles turned translucent. My legs shook with a violent, trembling fury, threatening to buckle beneath me at any second.
Stand, I told myself. Stand, you bastard.
Slowly, deliberately, I straightened my spine. For the first time since the night of the crash, Caleb Marino stood at his full height—six feet and two inches of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
Dr. Aris hovered nearby, hands outstretched, looking like a man watching someone perform open-heart surgery on a tightrope without a net. "Caleb, your muscle memory hasn't calibrated! If you try to walk, your ligaments will—"
"My ligaments can damned well tear themselves apart after I put a bullet in Marcus Cole," I interrupted, reaching across the tray to pick up my custom-weighted Sig Sauer P226, sliding the heavy slide back with a crisp, lethal clack.
I took one step forward.
My right leg wobbled, my ankle rolling inward, sending a jolt of agonizing pain shooting up my spine. I gritted my teeth so hard I tasted copper. I caught myself against the doorframe, breathing heavily, sweat stinging my eyes.
Second step.
My left leg followed, dragging heavily across the floor before locking into a stable stride.
The machinery of my body was screaming for mercy, protesting every year of neglect, but the fire in my chest burned hotter. I was no longer the man in the wheelchair. I was the Harbor King, and someone had just broken into my castle.
The hallway outside the medical suite was bathed in the harsh, flashing crimson of emergency strobes. Heavy tactical boots thudded against the oak flooring as two of Marcus Cole’s mercenaries rounded the corner, rifles raised, wearing black tactical gear and infrared night-vision rigs.
They spotted me standing in the doorway.
For a fraction of a second, their training failed them. Their brains simply refused to process the visual data: the parapet-bound crime lord standing tall, holding a pistol.
That fraction of a second was all I needed.
I raised the Sig Sauer and fired twice.
The muzzle blast deafened the narrow corridor. The lead mercenary took a 9mm round square in the center of his ceramic plate, spinning backward into his partner and sending them both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and tactical webbing.
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I stepped over their groaning bodies, my stride growing steadier with every agonizing step as the adrenaline flooded my system, overriding the physical pain.
I was heading toward the grand foyer, where the main entrance had been blown off its massive iron hinges. And waiting for me in the smoke-filled ruins of my home was Marcus Cole.
