Chapter 4 - BLOOD IN THE BASEMENT
Two shadowy figures slipped through the doorway, their dark tactical gear blending seamlessly with the gloom of the unlit hallway. Each carried a suppressed automatic weapon, their movements disciplined, silent, and deadly.
They weren't local thugs. They were professionals. Vance’s clean-up crew.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I clutched my mouth to stop myself from breathing too loudly, my eyes locked on Micah sleeping just twenty feet away behind the thin curtain. If they checked that alcove...
Renick didn't hesitate.
As the lead intruder stepped past the tiny kitchenette, moving toward the dark corner where Micah’s cot stood, Renick exploded from behind the island.
He moved with brutal, terrifying efficiency. In one fluid motion, he drove the butt of his pistol into the intruder’s temple, dropping him instantly with a dull thud against the concrete floor.
The second operative whipped around, raising his rifle.
Pfft-pfft!
Two muted shots tore through the air, punching splintered holes into the laminate cabinets right above my head. Renick dropped to one knee, returning fire with lethal precision. A single round caught the second intruder square in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending his weapon clattering across the floor.
Renick lunged forward, slamming the man’s head against the concrete wall until he slumped into unconsciousness.
Within five seconds, it was over.
The basement smelled sharply of cordite, gun oil, and fresh blood.
I scrambled out from behind the island, my legs shaking violently, and rushed toward Micah’s alcove. The curtain was pulled back. Micah was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes sleepily, looking down at the unconscious men sprawled across our kitchen floor with an expression of mild annoyance rather than terror.
“Mom?” Micah asked, his voice steady. “Are we moving again?”
I pulled him into my arms, burying my face in his soft hair, my whole body trembling. “No, baby. No. We’re staying right here.”
Renick stood over the two downed assassins, checking their pulses before pulling a secure satellite phone from his pocket. He punched in a short code.
“Sully,” Renick said into the phone, his voice cold enough to freeze liquid nitrogen. “Get a cleanup crew down to the basement auxiliary quarters immediately. And sweep the perimeter—Vance’s rats are bolder than we thought.”
He snapped the phone shut and turned around, walking slowly toward us. His knuckles were grazed, and a thin smear of blood stained his shirt sleeve.
He knelt down beside Micah and me, looking at my son with a gaze that had completely shifted. There was no more doubt in his eyes. Only absolute, unyielding certainty.
“You see?” Renick said softly to Micah. “The board is set. The pieces are moving.”
May you like
Micah looked back at the powerful mafia boss, tilted his head, and replied in that eerie, calm voice of his: “You moved your rook too early, Mr. Kavanaugh. You left your king exposed on the left flank.”
Renick stared at my seven-year-old son, and for the second time that day, the most feared man in Boston looked completely speechless.
