Chapter 7 - The Newark Leak
The peace of the sanctuary lasted until the second week of September, when the autumn leaves were just beginning to turn gold along the Saddle River banks.
Clara was in the basement server room, using the silver key Lorenzo had given her to access the secure medical database she had been building on an isolated terminal. The room was cool, filled with the steady, white-noise roar of computer fans and the green blinking lights of the main security router.
A sudden, sharp red flash illuminated the primary monitor over the central desk.
SECURITY BREACH: PERIMETER GATE TWO. AUTHENTICATION BUCKLEY-6.
Clara’s clinical brain processed the code instantly. Buckley-6 was Marco’s personal encrypted signature.
She stood up, her hand dropping to the pocket where she kept her internal radio. Before she could click the channel, the heavy steel door of the server room slid open with a sharp, hydraulic hiss.
Marco stood in the frame. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his shoulder holster was empty, and his face was covered in a slick sheen of sweat. In his hand, he held a short, military-grade submachine gun fitted with a thick silencer barrel.
"Move away from the console, Doctor," Marco said, his voice tight, his eyes darting toward the security monitors on the wall. "The Lucchese cars just cleared the lower creek road. They have fifteen men. The house guards are already taken care of."
Clara kept her hands visible, her silver key ring hanging from her index finger. "You sold him out, Marco. Two years he paid your salary. He took care of your family when your brother went to prison in Trenton."
"Lorenzo’s done," Marco spat, stepping into the room and reaching for the central memory drive on the mainframe desk. "He’s spent four months sitting in the sunroom watching you rub oil on a little girl’s legs while the Newark docks are being picked clean by the feds. He’s lost his edge because of you. The family needs a don who looks at the ledger, not the nursery."
"He didn't lose his edge, Marco," a voice growled from the ventilation shadow near the ceiling duct.
Lorenzo Moretti dropped from the secondary pipe access frame with the silent, destructive weight of a black panther. He didn't have his gun drawn; his bare hands caught Marco’s throat before the security chief could swing the barrel of the automatic weapon around.
The impact sent both men crashing into the steel server rack, a shower of blue sparks flying through the dark room as a high-voltage cable severed under their weight.
Marco screamed, his weapon firing a blind, muffled burst into the concrete ceiling as Lorenzo’s fingers tightened around his windpipe with the force of an industrial vice.
"You touched my daughter’s gate," Lorenzo whispered, his face twisted into an expression of such ancient, unadulterated fury that Clara felt her breath lock in her lungs. "You gave them the codes to her room."
With a single, massive heave of his shoulders, Lorenzo slammed Marco’s head against the steel edge of the router frame. The security chief went completely limp, his weapon clattering to the floor as his body slumped into the cooling fluid pooling around the damaged server racks.
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Lorenzo stood over him, his shirt torn open, his chest heaving as he wiped a streak of dark blood from his cheek. He looked up at Clara, his dark eyes wide with a sudden, frantic terror that had nothing to do with Marco’s betrayal.
"Sophia," he gasped. "The sunroom... the creek road cars are already past the lawn."
