Chapter 5 - Fire in the Dark
The quiet phut of the suppressed Sig Sauer was drowned out by the sudden crack of bone as the bullet struck the lead operator directly in the side of the head. The man went down instantly, his body collapsing onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud.
Before the remaining five men could react to the shadow in the alcove, D’Angelo raised the unsuppressed Glock in his right hand and opened fire into the tight group.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The roar of the 9mm rounds in the enclosed room was deafening. The muzzle flashes strobed like lightning, illuminating the room in blinding white bursts. The second operator took two rounds to the chest armor, the force driving him back into the man behind him. The third man caught a round through the throat, dropping his weapon as he clutched at his neck, spraying blood across the white walls.
“Ambush!” someone screamed in Italian. “Back out! Back out!”
The remaining three operators threw themselves behind the massive mahogany dining table, returning fire blind over the edge.
Suppressed submachine gun rounds ripped through the air with a rhythmic zip-zip-zip, tearing into the plaster walls, shattering the expensive crystal glassware in the display cabinets, and shredding the silk drapes.
D’Angelo dropped to the floor, rolling behind a heavy marble pillar that supported the high ceiling. Concrete dust and wood splinters rained down on him as bullets chipped away at the marble edges.
He ejected the empty magazine from his Glock, slapped a fresh twenty-round extension into the well, and rack the slide against his hip.
“He’s alone!” an operator shouted from behind the table. “Flank him from the left!”
D’Angelo heard the heavy footsteps of one of the men rushing toward the hallway exit to cut off his escape. He didn't stay behind the pillar. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the flathead screwdriver Nancy had given him, and jammed it into the exposed wiring panel of the smart-home control box mounted on the wall behind the pillar.
He ripped the casing off and jammed the metal blade across the main breaker leads.
A violent shower of sparks exploded from the box.
The automated house system went haywire. The emergency fire sprinklers in the ceiling activated with a loud hiss, drenching the dining room in a freezing cascade of water. Simultaneously, the smart lighting system triggered its emergency security protocol: the main floor was suddenly flooded with strobing, blinding white floodlights designed to disorient intruders.
The night-vision goggles worn by the Calibrazi hit team instantly overloaded.
Screams of pain echoed through the room as the operators frantically tore the white-hot optic units from their eyes, blinded by the sudden deluge of bright, flickering light and water.
D’Angelo didn't wear goggles. He knew the layout of his house blindfolded.
He stepped out from behind the marble pillar, moving through the torrential downpour of the indoor sprinklers like a ghost.
The operator attempting to flank him was clutching his eyes, his submachine gun swinging wildly. D’Angelo stepped inside his guard, grabbed the barrel of the weapon, twisted it downward, and brought the butt of his Glock smashing across the man’s jaw. The operator went limp, dropping into the pooled water on the floor.
D’Angelo didn't stop. He vaulted over the edge of the mahogany table, landing directly on top of the fifth operator. They went down together in a tangle of limbs. D’Angelo pressed the muzzle of his Sig Sauer against the man’s body armor, slid it up to the unprotected skin beneath his jaw, and pulled the trigger once.
The sixth and final operator—the leader—stumbled backward toward the open patio doors, blood streaming from his eyes as he tried to regain his vision. He leveled his weapon toward the strobe lights, screaming as he held down the trigger, spraying the room with a hail of bullets.
D’Angelo ducked low behind the table, letting the magazine run empty.
The lock clicked back on the hit team leader’s gun. Empty.
The man froze, his chest heaving, his blinded eyes darting around the chaos of the room. Water dripped from his black tactical vest, mixing with the blood pooling around his boots.
D’Angelo stepped out from behind the table, wiping the cold water from his face with his sleeve. He pointed his Sig Sauer directly at the leader’s chest.
“Who sent you?” D’Angelo demanded over the roaring sound of the sprinklers and the pulsing security alarm. “Was it Marco?”
The leader coughed, spitting a mixture of rain and blood onto the floor. He offered a dark, grimacing smile. “You’re already dead, Gallow. Marco… Marco isn't even in the city. He’s at the airport. You think this was about killing you?”
D’Angelo’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“The sit-down wasn't a trap for you,” the man wheezed, wiping his eyes. “It was a distraction. Marco didn't want your life, Gallow. He wanted your ledger. The digital master key to the offshore network. And your little fiancée... she gave him the vault code an hour ago.”
D’Angelo’s blood ran cold.
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The ledger wasn't kept in the study safe. It was stored on an encrypted physical server built beneath the foundation of the house—accessible only through the panel inside the safe room.
The safe room where he had just locked Camila.
