Chapter 8 - The Kill-Box
Inside Corridor Four, the air was thick with the smell of ozone, hot steel, and panic.
Adrian Mercer stood holding an automatic rifle, his expensive suit rumpled and stained with sweat. Beside him, his three remaining lieutenants were frantically hammering on the steel blast door that had slammed down in front of them.
“Breach it! Get the thermal torch!” Mercer screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. “Where are the other teams? Why aren't they inside?”
“The front team is pinned down at the fountain, boss!” one of his men yelled back. “Their security grid is totally live! Everything we were told about blind spots was a lie!”
Before Mercer could reply, the heavy iron door at the far end of the corridor unlocked with a loud, pneumatic hiss—TSHHH.
The door slid open slowly.
Through the fog and dim yellow lighting of the corridor walked Luca Valenti.
He didn't take cover. He didn't rush. He walked with slow, deliberate, terrifying confidence, his pistol held loosely at his side.
“Adrian,” Luca said, his deep voice carrying clearly down the narrow hall. “You look tired.”
Mercer’s lieutenants spun around, raising their weapons—BANG! BANG! BANG!
Luca moved with lethal, practiced speed. He sidestepped behind a stone pillar, brought his pistol up, and fired three precise shots—THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
The three lieutenants collapsed to the concrete floor, instantly neutralized.
Mercer dropped his empty rifle, stumbling backward against the locked steel door, pulling a silver revolver from his waistband with shaking hands.
“Stay back, Valenti!” Mercer shrieked, his eyes wide with unhinged terror. “I have men on their way! I have federal connections! You kill me, and the whole city comes down on your head!”
Luca stepped out from behind the pillar, walking until he stood just ten feet from Mercer. He didn't even raise his gun.
“Your men left you two hours ago, Adrian,” Luca said smoothly. “Your accounts are frozen. Your docks belong to me. And your federal connections were paid off with Valenti money twenty minutes ago.”
Mercer’s mouth worked silently, his face turning the color of wet paper. “Where... where is Shaw?”
“Shaw died in a coatroom,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming colder than absolute zero. “He touched something that belonged to me. He made the mistake of thinking Elena Russo was weak.”
Mercer gasped, realizing the full extent of his failure. “The accountant... she killed Shaw?”
“She survived him,” Luca corrected softly. “And then she dismantled your entire life with a computer in less than six hours.”
Luca stepped closer, his heavy pistol raising until the dark barrel aligned directly between Mercer’s eyes.
“You threatened her sister,” Luca whispered. “You threatened her nephew. For that... there is no negotiation.”
“Luca, please—” Mercer begged, raising his hands.
BANG.
A single shot echoed through the stone corridor.
Adrian Mercer collapsed to the floor, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
May you like
Luca stood over the body for a brief second, his face completely expressionless. He engaged the safety on his weapon, holstered it beneath his coat, and turned around to walk back down the hall.
The war for Manhattan was over.
