Chapter 6 - The Trap Shuts
Holt’s hand dropped from Delia’s face in an instant.
The vulnerable, wounded man vanished, replaced in the blink of an eye by the cold, lethal predator of Atlantic City. His right hand dipped into his suit jacket, thumb releasing the safety catch of the .45 tucked into his custom leather shoulder holster.
“Stay behind me,” Holt commanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, flat baritone.
He pushed open the heavy terrace French doors with his left arm, stepping silently back into the dining room.
The main dining floor was still filled with music and conversation; the noise hadn't come from the front of the house. It had come from the service corridor leading to the private back office—the room Delia had been using for the past three days.
Holt moved down the hallway with terrifying, predatory grace, his boots making zero sound against the tile. Delia followed two paces behind, ignoring his command to stay back, her instincts screaming that something had gone terribly wrong.
The door to her office was half-open.
Inside, papers were scattered across the floor. A desk lamp was knocked over, its bulb flickering against the wainscoting.
Crouched behind the desk, clutching an open manila folder in trembling, sweat-stained hands, was a man in a filthy corduroy jacket. His hair was greasy, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his face covered in a patchy, three-day beard.
Delia froze in the doorway, the blood draining completely from her face.
“Jason?” she choked out.
The man flinched violently, dropping the papers. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto Delia with a mixture of terror and pathetic desperation.
“Delia!” Jason Miller scrambled to his feet, knocking the desk chair backward. “Delia, oh God, baby, you gotta help me! You gotta get me out of here!”
Jason looked like a ghost of the man she had married five years ago. The cocky, charming smile was gone, replaced by the hollow, trembling wreck of a chronic gambler whose luck had finally hit the bottom of the grave.
Then Jason’s eyes darted to the man standing beside Delia.
When Jason saw Holt Kane—tall, immaculately dressed, holding a heavy automatic pistol with the casual familiarity of a butcher holding a cleaver—Jason’s knees gave out. He collapsed back against the bookshelves, sliding down the mahogany wall until he was practically sitting on the floor.
“Don't shoot!” Jason wailed, holding up two trembling hands. “Don't shoot, Mr. Kane! Vance made me do it! He told me he’d cut my throat if I didn't get inside!”
Delia felt a wave of cold fury and bitter disgust wash over her. “Jason... what did you do?”
“Vance has my marker!” Jason cried, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his hollow cheeks. “He brought me back from Tampa! He said... he said you were sleeping with Holt Kane now! He said if I got inside your office, if I stole the shipping manifests for the north docks from your safe, he’d wipe the rest of my debt and let me leave the state!”
Delia looked down at the scattered papers on the floor.
They weren't restaurant invoices. They were the private shipping logs for Kane Holdings’ supply warehouses—the exact documents that Victor Vance needed to intercept Holt’s supply lines.
“How did you get into this building, Jason?” Holt asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was soft, deadly, and entirely calm. The muzzle of his weapon remained leveled at the center of Jason’s chest.
Jason swallowed hard, his throat clicking like dry plastic. “The... the back door. The loading dock. It was unlocked. The big guy... the guy with the scar on his jaw... he left the deadbolt open!”
Delia turned her head sharply toward Holt. “Doyle.”
Holt didn't flinch. His expression remained entirely carved from stone, but Delia saw the dangerous, icy gleam that entered his gray eyes. Doyle Hart had been with him for fifteen years. Doyle had eaten at his table, guarded his back, and taken millions from his payroll.
And Doyle had just sold him out to Victor Vance for a piece of the Boardwalk.
“Where is Victor right now, Jason?” Holt asked quietly.
Jason was shaking so violently his teeth were chattering. “He’s... he’s at Shore Memorial.”
The room went completely, suffocatingly cold.
Delia’s heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the air vanishing from the room as if the building had been dropped into an abyss.
“What did you say?” Delia’s voice was a whisper, a sound torn from the deepest, darkest core of her chest.
“Vance knew you wouldn't leave *L'Aura* unless you had to,” Jason wept, babbling like a broken child. “He knew Holt wouldn't leave his fortress for a street fight. So he sent Doyle to open the back door here to keep you distracted, while he took four guys to the hospital. He’s going to take your mother, Delia! He’s going to use Faye to force Holt to sign over the north docks!”
Delia didn't scream. She didn't cry.
A primal, terrifying fury that had been buried beneath years of poverty, exhaustion, and swallowed pride suddenly erupted through her veins like liquid fire.
She lunged forward, grabbed Jason by the collar of his filthy corduroy jacket, and slammed him against the mahogany wall with a force that rattled the picture frames.
“If they touch her,” Delia hissed into his face, her eyes blazing with a madness that made Jason whimper in sheer horror, “if Victor Vance so much as breathes the air in her room, Jason, I won't let Holt shoot you. I will tear your throat out with my bare hands. Do you hear me?”
She shoved him away in disgust. Jason curled into a ball on the floor, weeping and covering his head.
Delia spun around to face Holt.
“My mother,” she said. Her voice was shaking, but her eyes were fixed on his with a desperate, terrifying plea. “Holt, my mother.”
Holt didn't waste a second. He holstered his weapon, pulled a sleek black satellite phone from his pocket, and hit speed dial while striding out of the office.
“Ross,” Holt barked into the receiver as he moved down the hallway, Delia running at his side. “Code Black. Shore Memorial, fourth-floor cardiac pavilion. Vance is on site. Bring every man from the marina. Move!”
He kicked open the heavy metal exit door leading to the private executive parking garage behind the restaurant.
A black armored Mercedes-Benz sedan sat idling in the private stall, its engine rumbling like a caged beast.
May you like
Holt ripped open the passenger door, shoved Delia inside, slammed it shut, and jumped behind the steering wheel. The tires screamed against the concrete floor as the heavy vehicle launched out of the underground garage into the torrential Atlantic storm.
***
