Chapter 5 - The Strike in the Dark
The trap was sprung on a foggy Thursday morning in October.
Claire had an appointment at the Atlantic City Medical Center for a routine prenatal ultrasound. Accompanied by Vic Rossini and two armed Moretti security guards in an armored black SUV, they departed the Villa Rosa at 8:00 AM.
The heavy coastal fog hung low over the city, reducing visibility to less than thirty feet. The streets near the medical district were eerily quiet.
As the SUV slowed down at a red light near an industrial intersection three blocks from the hospital, a massive construction dump truck suddenly pulled out from a side alley, slamming violently into the front driver's side of the vehicle.
The crunch of twisting metal and shattering glass echoed through the foggy street.
Claire screamed as the impact threw her against the leather seat, the seatbelt biting hard into her shoulder. Airbags deployed with a loud pop, filling the cabin with white dust.
"Claire! Are you hit?!" Vic shouted frantically from the front passenger seat, blood streaming down his forehead from a cut on his hairline.
"I... I'm okay!" Claire gasped, clutching her stomach in terror. "The baby... I think the baby is okay!"
"Stay down!" Vic yelled, pulling a heavy black handgun from his shoulder holster.
Before the security guards in the trailing vehicle could maneuver around the wreckage, two dark vans screeched to a halt on either side of the SUV. Eight men wearing ski masks and tactical vests leaped out, opening fire with automatic weapons.
Sparks flew off the reinforced armor-plated glass of the SUV. The deafening roar of gunfire shattered the quiet morning.
Vic returned fire through the tiny gunports in the door, dropping one of the attackers. But the sheer volume of gunfire was overwhelming. The side door of the SUV was ripped open with a hydraulic crowbar, and two heavy men reached inside, grabbing Vic and dragging him out into the street.
Claire scrambled back into the far corner of the rear seat, her mind racing in pure, unadulterated terror.
A tall man stepped into the open doorway of the SUV. He pulled off his ski mask, revealing a long scar along his jawline and cold, reptilian eyes.
Dominic Vance.
"Hello, little bird," Vance sneered, his voice dripping with sinister satisfaction. "Grant Mercer spoke very highly of you before he went to prison. He said you were worth three hundred thousand dollars."
"Don't touch me!" Claire spat, her fear instantly transforming into fierce, maternal rage. "Luca will hunt you to the ends of the earth!"
Vance laughed—a cold, cruel sound. "Luca Moretti is currently dealing with three bomb threats at his casinos on the boardwalk. By the time he realizes this was a distraction, you'll be halfway to Philadelphia, and Luca will be willing to trade every dock contract in New Jersey to get you back."
Vance reached into the vehicle, grabbing Claire violently by her arm.
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Claire fought back with everything she had, scratching at his face, kicking her legs, screaming for help. But Vance’s grip was like iron. He dragged her out of the wrecked SUV and threw her into the back of his waiting van.
The heavy sliding door slammed shut, plunging Claire into total darkness as the van accelerated away into the blinding white fog, leaving the ruined street and bleeding guards behind.
