Chapter 7 - The Ambush at Pier 8
The roar of the heavy diesel engine tore through the quiet afternoon air like an industrial explosion.
Through the tall kitchen windows overlooking the driveway, Amelia saw the massive yellow dump truck smash through the secondary wrought-iron gates, sending iron rails and stone masonry flying across the lawn in a shower of pulverized debris.
The truck skidded to a halt on the circular drive, its tires tearing deep, muddy trenches through the manicured turf.
The driver’s side door kicked open.
Derek Lawson jumped down into the gravel.
He was unrecognizable.
His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and burning with the frantic, unhinged madness of a cornered rabid dog. His right arm was still immobilized in a dirty, cracked plaster cast, but strapped to his left shoulder was an unbranded military-style carbine, its magazine drum loaded with seventy rounds of high-velocity ammunition.
"CASTELLANO!" Derek screamed, his voice shredding on the syllables as he raised the weapon toward the main house. "COME OUT, YOU OLD BASTARD! COME OUT AND SEE WHAT YOU DID TO MY FAMILY!"
"Stay in the pantry, Amelia," Vincent commanded, his voice as cold and level as an Arctic glacier. He pulled a sleek, customized black automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, checking the chamber with a single, practiced snap of his wrist.
"Vincent, no!" Amelia cried out, grabbing his sleeve, her heart leaping into her throat. "He’s out of his mind! He has an automatic rifle!"
Vincent looked down at her.
He didn't look afraid. He looked like an ancient titan preparing to crush an insect beneath his heel.
He leaned down, pressed a fierce, breathless kiss to her lips, and whispered:
"Nobody threatens my home while you are inside it."
He stepped through the heavy French doors onto the stone terrace.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
A hail of high-caliber rifle fire chewed into the limestone balustrade, sending chunks of stone and shattered glass showering over the terrace.
Vincent did not dive for cover like a panicked soldier.
He moved with the terrifying, supernatural economy of a predator who had survived fifty gunfights. He stepped behind a massive granite pillar, waited for the rhythmic pause in Derek’s firing cycle—the three seconds when the younger man was forced to adjust his grip on the heavy drum with his left hand—and stepped out into the open light.
Crack. Crack.
Two precise, double-tap rounds from Vincent’s pistol tore through Derek’s left shoulder and thigh.
Derek shrieked in agony, dropping the rifle onto the gravel as his legs buckled beneath him. He hit the ground on his stomach, rolling in the wet dirt, clutching his shattered shoulder as dark crimson blood pooled beneath his leather jacket.
Vincent walked down the stone stairs.
His pace was unhurried. His oxfords crunched rhythmically over the gravel.
He stopped three feet from where Derek lay writhing in the dirt, leveling the barrel of his pistol directly between the young man’s terrified, bloodshot eyes.
"You broke the perimeter, Derek," Vincent whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute, sovereign death.
"Kill me!" Derek wept, spitting blood and gravel onto his boots. "Go ahead and shoot me, you mobster piece of trash! My family is ruined anyway!"
"Death is an easy escape for a coward, Derek," a clear, resonant voice spoke from the top of the stone stairs.
Vincent paused, his eyes flicking upward.
Amelia stood on the terrace.
She did not look like a frightened waitress hiding in a pantry. She stood tall, her head held high, her cashmere sweater blowing in the harbor breeze, her hazel eyes blazing with an unshakeable, majestic authority that silenced the entire driveway.
She walked down the stone steps, stopping beside Vincent, resting her hand gently against his forearm.
"Do not stain our home with his blood, Vincent," Amelia said softly, looking down at the groaning man in the dirt with an expression of profound, detached pity.
"Let the law take what is left of him."
Vincent stared at her for two long, silent seconds.
The dark, murderous storm in his gray eyes slowly receded, replaced by an infinite, reverent warmth that took his breath away.
He slowly lowered the pistol, clicking the safety back on with a crisp snap.
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"You heard the lady, Derek," Vincent said, gesturing toward the perimeter gate where three sirens were already wailing in the distance.
"Marco. Hand him over to the state troopers. Make sure the warden puts him in the solitary wing at Sing Sing."
