Chapter 7 - The Counter-Strike
At 11:45 p.m., the Obsidian Tower was quiet. Victor Vane sat in his high-backed leather chair, watching six security monitors displaying the empty, fog-covered rail yards three miles away. He had twenty armed men hidden in the shadows of the abandoned train cars, waiting for Cassius Wren's convoy to arrive.
"Any sign of him?" Vane asked his tactical commander through his headset.
"Nothing yet, boss," the commander replied. "It's 11:46. If he's coming, he's late."
Vane chuckled, taking a sip of his scotch. "He's hesitating. The great Cassius Wren is second-guessing himself. The moment his headlights hit those tracks, take out his lead vehicle."
Suddenly, the lights in Vane's penthouse flickered once, twice, and then went completely dark.
The security monitors died instantly. The hum of the air conditioning ceased. The entire sixty-fifth floor was plunged into pitch-black shadow, illuminated only by the distant neon glow of the city through the glass windows.
Vane dropped his glass. He reached for the drawer containing his sidearm, but before his fingers could touch the handle, the heavy reinforced door of his office blew inward with a deafening CRACK.
Flashbang grenades detonated in the hallway, filling the room with blinding white light and disorienting sound.
Before Vane could even scream, two heavy, iron-like hands grabbed him by the collar, lifted his two-hundred-pound frame out of his chair, and slammed him face-first onto his own glass desk.
The glass cracked under the force, spiderwebbing in every direction.
A cool, sharp edge of steel pressed firmly against the side of Vane's neck.
"Looking for me, Victor?"
The voice was low, smooth, and terrified Vane more than any gun ever could.
The emergency backup lights kicked on, casting a dim, red glow across the room. Cassius Wren stood over Vane, holding him down with one hand, a sleek tactical knife held against the man's throat.
Standing in the doorway behind Cassius were ten of his elite operators, who had already disarmed Vane's personal bodyguards without firing a single lethal shot.
"Cassius..." Vane choked out, blood trickling from his nose onto the cracked glass. "How... how did you... the rail yards..."
"You thought I was looking at the bait," Cassius whispered into Vane's ear. "You forgot that I built this city's security infrastructure before you even bought your first casino. I don't go where my enemies want me to go."
"Your... your men..." Vane gasped. "My guys at the rail yards will kill them!"
"Your guys at the rail yards are currently being surrounded by federal agents," Cassius said smoothly. "I leaked an anonymous tip forty minutes ago that an illegal weapons shipment was taking place at those exact coordinates. Your men are currently on their knees in handcuffs. You, however... are right where I want you."
Vane's eyes widened in sheer horror. Cassius hadn't played a mob war game; he had used the law, tactical misdirection, and overwhelming force to completely dismantle Vane's entire operation in under an hour—all without spilling a drop of blood in his own territory.
Cassius leaned closer, his voice dropping into an icy whisper. "You sent men to a hospital to harass a twenty-five-year-old girl. You tried to use an eight-year-old boy as leverage against me. You broke the rules, Victor."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Cassius!" Vane wept, his bravado entirely shattered. "Take the northern clubs! Take the territory! Just don't kill me!"
Cassius pressed the blade slightly deeper, just enough to draw a single drop of blood. "You are going to sign over every asset you own in Nevada to a charitable trust for impoverished families. Then you are going to get on a plane to Europe, and if I ever see your face in this state again, I won't use a knife. I'll throw you off this balcony."
"I'll sign! I'll sign anything!" Vane screamed.
Cassius pulled the knife back, wiped it on Vane's silk collar, and stepped back. He looked at Matteo. "Get the papers. Have him sign. Then put him on a private flight to London."
"Yes, Boss," Matteo said, grinning broadly.
Cassius turned and walked toward the private express elevator. As the doors closed, he checked his silver pocket watch. It was 12:15 a.m.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the hospital's private line.
"Is the boy sleeping?" Cassius asked when the nurse picked up.
"Mr. Wren?" the nurse replied softly. "No, sir. Eli is sitting in the armchair by his sister's bed. He said he promised to wait up for you."
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Cassius stared at his reflection in the polished brass elevator doors. For twenty-six years, he had returned from battle to an empty penthouse, surrounded only by silence and ghosts.
"Tell him I'm on my way," Cassius said.
