Chapter 5 - The War for BostonThe clock on the dashboard of my armored SUV read 3:42 AM when the convoy of six black tactical vans rolled out from the shadows of the South Boston shipyards, heading straight for the Waverly family compound in Weston.
Uncle Victor sat in the passenger seat beside me, a scarred, veteran enforcer who had buried two brothers and served my father loyally before my mother pushed him out of power. He was cleaning the slide of a customized Colt .45 with a cloth, his face carved from weathered granite.
“Your mother’s got fifty men stationed around the main estate,” Victor muttered without looking up. “Private security, corrupted state troopers, and a few mercenaries she flew in from Zurich. It’s going to be a bloodbath if we breach the front gates.”
“We aren't breaching the front gates,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the wet asphalt illuminated by our high beams. “We’re hitting the subterranean water vaults beneath the east wing. That’s where she keeps her private communication servers and the holding room for political leverage.”
Victor grunted in approval. “Just like your old man. Arthur would have been proud of the way you finally grew teeth, kid.”
Twenty minutes later, our vehicles killed their headlights a half-mile from the Weston estate, coasting silently onto the private access road that wound through the dense pine forest.
The Waverly estate was a sprawling fortress of stone and glass, surrounded by a fifteen-foot perimeter wall topped with razor wire and thermal motion sensors. But every fortress has a blind spot—a design flaw known only to the bloodline that built it.
My father had shown me the drainage tunnels beneath the wine cellars when I was twelve years old.
We parked the vans near the dry creek bed. Within three minutes, my strike team of forty loyal union men and tactical specialists had pried open the heavy iron grate leading into the storm drains.
The air inside was cold, damp, and smelled of wet earth and old stone.
We moved in absolute silence through the concrete labyrinth until we reached the heavy steel maintenance hatch leading directly into the lower sub-basement of the main manor.
I pulled the small, notched key June Harper had given me at the hospital from my pocket—the key Mara had insisted was our ultimate insurance policy.
I didn't know yet what it opened in the Federal Reserve, but right now, it fit perfectly into the manual override cylinder of the sub-basement security door.
Click.
May you like
The heavy deadbolt slid back with a soft, mechanical sigh.
I pushed the door open, raised my weapon, and stepped into the heart of the enemy’s lair.
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