Chapter 10 - The Fall of the Don
Inside the top-floor penthouse of the Grand Bay Hotel, Don Vincent Marcone stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the foggy city skyline. He held a glass of twenty-year-old scotch in his hand, his heavy face illuminated only by the glow of his cigar.
When the lights cut out, Marcone didn't panic. He simply chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“Hart thinks he can play nineties power-cut games,” Marcone said to the four armed bodyguards standing in the dark room with him. “Get the night-vision goggles on. Watch the stairwells.”
Down in the basement, the darkness was total—complete, suffocating, and absolute.
To the two guards standing by the service elevator, the sudden loss of light was disorienting. They reached for their night-vision gear, their hands fumbling with the straps in the pitch-black corridor.
Through the bone-conduction speaker on Cyrus’s collar, Maisie’s voice whispered directly into the dog’s ear.
“Go, Cyrus. Take the keys.”
The green feed on Leo’s tablet exploded into motion.
Cyrus didn't launch a noisy attack. He moved like a shadow across the flooded floor, striking the first guard before the man could even lower his goggles over his eyes. The impact threw the guard against the electrical panel, knocking him unconscious instantly.
The second guard panicked, swinging his shotgun blindly into the dark. “WHAT IS THAT? WHAT IS—”
Cyrus’s jaws clamped around the shotgun’s barrel, wrenching the weapon out of the guard’s hands with violent force, followed by a swift shoulder-tackle that dropped the man into the shallow water.
Before the guard could scream, the heavy freight elevator doors were manually pried open from the outside.
Julian Hart stepped out of the emergency stairwell shaft into the basement, surrounded by ten of his elite assault team wearing advanced night-vision gear.
Julian didn't even look at the two groaning guards on the floor. He stepped into the freight elevator, clicked a heavy external battery pack into the control box, and hit the top-floor override button.
“Clear the building,” Julian commanded into his radio.
The freight elevator began its rapid, silent ascent to the penthouse suite, carrying Julian, six assault operatives, and ninety pounds of muscular retribution.
Forty seconds later, the private elevator doors of the penthouse burst open with a hydraulic roar.
Marcone’s bodyguards barely had time to raise their weapons before Julian’s team flooded the room with flashbang grenades and precision fire.
BANG-BANG-BANG.
In less than twelve seconds, the four bodyguards were disarmed, pinned to the floor, and handcuffed.
Don Vincent Marcone dropped his scotch glass. The crystal shattered on the Persian rug as he backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling glass window, his face pale, his hands shaking violently as he pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his coat pocket.
“Stay back!” Marcone screamed, his voice cracking with the terrified realization that his empire had collapsed in less than five minutes. “I’ll blow this whole floor to hell, Hart! I’ve got fuel charges in the basement!”
Julian stepped through the smoke, clearing his weapon and tucking it into his shoulder holster. He looked entirely relaxed, as if he were attending a late-night board meeting.
Behind Julian, Cyrus trotted out of the elevator, his dark fur wet from the basement water, his golden eyes locked onto Marcone’s chest.
Marcone stared at the dog, his jaw dropping in sheer horror. “That... that’s the beast from the arena...”
“He doesn't bite unless he’s told to, Vincent,” Julian said smoothly, stepping aside.
From behind Julian’s long coat, a tiny girl stepped into the ruined penthouse.
Maisie held her wooden cane, her yellow-and-black hiking boots stepping lightly over the broken glass on the rug. She walked to the center of the room, turning her face toward the heavy smell of tobacco smoke.
“You smell like fear now,” Maisie said softly to Marcone. “It’s very loud.”
Marcone looked from the tiny blind child to the terrifying hound, then to Julian Hart, whose gray eyes held no mercy, no hesitation, and no doubt.
The snub-nosed revolver slipped from Marcone’s numb fingers, dropping uselessly onto the carpet. He sank to his knees, burying his face in his trembling hands, weeping silently as Roman stepped forward with the heavy iron handcuffs.
Julian didn't look at the fallen Don. He knelt down beside Maisie, gently buttoning the collar of her rain jacket to keep the cool sea breeze off her neck.
“It’s over,” Julian said softly to her.
May you like
Maisie reached out, her small hand finding Julian’s cheek, feeling the steady, calm rhythm of his pulse beneath his skin.
“Your clock isn't ticking too fast anymore, Julian,” she whispered, offering him a small, bright smile. “It sounds just right.”
