Chapter 7 - The Master of Blackwood
The two junior guards hired by Gabriel didn't even have time to bring their weapons up.
Maximus struck the first guard full in the chest, his two hundred pounds of muscle and momentum smashing the man backward over the stainless-steel prep counter, sending a shower of copper pots and pans crashing to the floor. The guard hit the floor unconscious, his pistol skittering away into the dark.
The second guard dropped his weapon instantly, throwing his hands above his head, falling to his knees in surrender as Aleandro stepped through the pantry doorway, his snub-nosed revolver trained precisely on the center of the man's forehead.
"On your face," Aleandro commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze water.
The guard collapsed onto his stomach, pressing his forehead flat against the cold, grease-stained tile.
Gabriel was on his knees near the burning laptop, holding his right hand, which had been severely scorched by the exploding battery. His suppressed pistol lay three feet away on the floor, resting in a pool of spilled olive oil.
He looked up, his face pale, his eyes wide with wild, manic terror as Aleandro walked slowly across the kitchen toward him.
Aleandro stopped three inches from Gabriel’s hand. He did not point his gun at Gabriel’s head. He simply stood over him, looking down at his oldest friend with a silence that was far more terrifying than a dozen gunshots.
"Aleandro..." Gabriel gasped, clutching his burned wrist, blood and black soot smearing his designer suit. "Aleandro, please... we were brothers in South Philly... remember? We stood on the same corner... we took the same oaths..."
"Brothers don't sell each other's lives to Vincent," Aleandro said softly.
He reached down, picked up Gabriel’s fallen pistol by its receiver, checked the magazine with a smooth, mechanical click, and slipped it into his pocket.
"The Miami servers," Aleandro said. "Did the file complete?"
Gabriel swallowed hard, looking at the charred, smoking wreck of his laptop. "No... no, the signal died right at ninety-two percent. The local cache burned out before the handshake went through. Nothing got out, Aleandro! I swear to God, nothing got out!"
Aleandro didn't answer. He turned his head slightly toward the kitchen doorway.
Standing in the hall, illuminated by the bright white beams of six tactical flashlights, were eight heavily armed men wearing the dark, unmarked uniforms of the Vitali family’s elite perimeter squad. At their head was Marco, the old cook, who was holding a heavy iron skillet like a weapon, his face set in a grim, furious scowl.
"Boss," the lead perimeter officer said, bowing his head slightly. "The gate guards have been secured. Two of Vincent’s scouts were caught sitting in an SUV half a mile down the access road. We have them in the basement."
"Good," Aleandro said. He gestured toward Gabriel with his chin. "Take him down to the wine cellar. Put him in the stone vault behind the rack of 1945 Lafite. Do not feed him. Do not give him water. I will deal with him once the house is clean."
Gabriel didn't fight as two massive guards hauled him to his feet by his armpits. He didn't shout. He simply hung his head, his boots dragging uselessly across the marble floor as they led him away into the dark hallways of the estate.
Aleandro stood in the middle of the ruined kitchen. The smell of smoke, ozone, and wet rain was thick in the air.
He turned around slowly, his eyes searching the room until they found Hannah.
She was standing near the open pantry door, holding the yellow wire cutters in her hand, her hair loose from its bun, a smudge of black carbon running across her left cheekbone. She looked exhausted, her small frame shivering slightly in the cold draft blowing up from the open shaft in the floor.
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Aleandro walked across the room until he was standing directly in front of her.
Maximus walked over, sat down between them, and rested his large, black head against Hannah’s knee with a long, contented sigh.
