Chapter 7 - THE STORM ON THE HUDSON
Before Kroll could process my words, the reinforced glass windows at the stern of the sky-lounge exploded inward in a blinding shower of crystal shards and black smoke.
BOOM!
A flashbang grenade detonated in the center of the room, flooding the sky-lounge with a deafening, 170-decibel shockwave and a blinding burst of magnesium white light.
Kroll shrieked, clutching his ears as his glass of scotch shattered on the floor. His two bodyguards were thrown off balance, their vision completely whiteout, swinging their silenced weapons wildly toward the shattered windows.
"BREACH! BREACH!" Marcus Cole’s voice roared through the smoke.
Marcus and his three tactical operatives swung through the shattered window frames on tactical rappelling lines, hitting the teak floor with heavy, precise boots.
THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!
Suppressed gunshots echoed sharply through the room. Kroll’s two bodyguards collapsed to the carpet, their weapons spinning across the floor before they could even squeeze their triggers.
I dropped to one knee behind a heavy leather sofa, pulling my father's Walther PPK from my coat pocket.
Kroll, despite his severe limp, moved with terrifying, veteran speed. He grabbed a heavy black hard-drive array from the mahogany desk beside his chair, jammed it beneath his arm, and drew a compact silver pistol from his shoulder holster, firing wildly toward the smoke as he lunged toward a private door leading to the lower deck engine room.
"He's escaping with the primary servers!" I screamed, breaking cover and sprinting through the clearing smoke after him.
"Miss Albright! Stay down!" Marcus yelled, clearing the rear deck.
I didn't stay down. I pursued Kroll down the narrow, dimly lit steel staircase leading to the NIGHTHAWK’s lower mechanical hold. The deafening roar of two massive three-thousand-horsepower diesel engines reverberated through the steel walls, drowning out all sound.
At the end of the mechanical corridor, Kroll was frantically hammering a code into a heavy watertight emergency hatch that led to the private tender boat docked at the stern.
"Kroll!" I shouted, raising my Walther PPK with both hands, stepping into the center of the narrow corridor.
Kroll snapped his head around. His silver hair was messy, his pale face smeared with black soot from the flashbang, his hand holding his silver pistol.
He looked at me—standing at the end of the narrow steel hallway in my black suit, holding my father's gun with unwavering, absolute precision.
"You..." Kroll growled, his voice barely audible over the thunderous roar of the diesel engines. "You think you can stop me, little girl?! You think you have the stomach to pull that trigger?!"
"My father built a three-billion-dollar company from nothing, Kroll," I said, my voice cold, sharp, and steady as an iron rail. "He taught me how to read balance sheets, how to manage international trusts, and how to protect what is ours. But most importantly..."
I took a step closer, my finger tightening on the trigger, the front sight aligned perfectly between his cold, pale eyes.
"...he taught me that when a wild dog attacks your family, you don't negotiate with it."
Kroll’s eyes widened in sudden, genuine terror. He raised his silver pistol to fire.
BANG!
A single gunshot echoed sharply through the steel engine room, cutting clean through the thunder of the diesel motors.
Kroll’s pistol flew from his hand as a high-caliber round shattered his right wrist. He let out a strangled shriek of agony, collapsing against the watertight hatch, clutching his bleeding arm, the black hard-drive array tumbling from his grip and slamming onto the steel floor at my feet.
I walked slowly up to him, my gun still aimed flat at his chest.
With the tip of my designer heel, I kicked his silver pistol down the drainage grate into the bilge water below. Then, I picked up the heavy black hard drive—the physical vault containing every email, every offshore wire transfer, and every assassination order Victor Kroll had issued for twenty years.
Kroll slumped against the bulkhead, sweating profusely, staring up at me with a mixture of agony and profound disbelief.
"Who... who the hell are you?" Kroll rasped through his teeth.
I stood over him, my black wool trench coat framed against the harsh industrial lights of the engine room, my father's platinum watch glittering on my wrist.
"I’m Naomi Albright," I said softly. "The woman who just closed your account."
Behind me, the heavy steel door of the engine room burst open. Marcus Cole and four armed federal marshals rushed into the corridor with flashlights and tactical rifles.
"Target secured!" Marcus shouted, seeing Kroll bleeding on the floor and me standing unharmed with the hard drive under my arm. "Federal agents! Secure the vessel!"
Two marshals slammed Kroll onto his stomach, snapping heavy steel cuffs around his ankles and uninjured wrist.
Agent Miller from the SEC Financial Crimes Unit stepped up beside me, looking down at the black hard-drive array in my hands, then at Kroll.
"Miss Albright," Agent Miller said, taking off his hat in absolute respect. "With this server and the wiretap recordings from the estate, we have enough evidence to dismantle Vanguard Capital’s entire North American syndicate. Victor Kroll will spend the rest of his natural life in a maximum-security federal facility."
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"See that he does, Agent Miller," I said, handing him the heavy hard drive. "And tell the federal prosecutor that the Albright family will be attending every single day of his trial."
I turned and walked back up the steel staircase, leaving the dark mechanical hold behind me, stepping out onto the upper deck just as the morning sun broke through the heavy river fog, illuminating the Manhattan skyline in brilliant, victorious gold.
