Chapter 5 - The Rat’s Escape
The smoke from the gunfire hung thick and acrid in the grand foyer, stinging the eyes and tasting of copper and sulfur.
Vincent crouched behind a heavy mahogany pillar, checking the magazine of his 1911 with practiced, mechanical precision. Across the room, Salvador Moretti was huddled behind a velvet sofa, clutching his bleeding arm where a stray ricochet had grazed him.
"Dante's heading for the back garage!" Marco shouted from the foot of the stairs, pressing his back against the wall as another burst of suppressed gunfire chewed through the drywall above him.
"Don't let him reach the tarmac," Vincent ordered, his voice dropping an octave into that dead, quiet register that meant someone was about to die.
Vincent didn't wait for Marco to reply. He broke cover, moving with explosive speed toward the arched hallway leading to the back of the mansion. Bullets chipped the stone floor around his shoes, but he didn't flinch. He rounded the corner just in time to see the heavy steel door leading to the underground garage swing shut.
He kicked the door open.
Inside the dimly lit garage, a sleek black sports car was already roaring to life, its tires screeching against the concrete floor as it spun around in a wide arc toward the exit ramp.
Dante Vance was behind the wheel, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights, a frantic look of desperation replacing his earlier arrogance.
Vincent didn't bother chasing the car on foot. Instead, he sprinted toward a parked SUV belonging to one of Moretti’s guards, vaulted through the shattered driver’s side window, and jammed his key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and Vincent slammed the gear shift into drive, flooring the gas pedal before the door could even close.
The SUV rocketed out of the garage just as Dante’s sports car hit the main driveway leading out of the estate.
The chase was on.
The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the winding mountain roads into slick, treacherous ribbons of asphalt. Dante took a sharp curve at eighty miles per hour, his rear tires sliding dangerously close to the steep drop-off overlooking the bay.
Vincent didn't lift his foot from the gas. His SUV slammed into the rear bumper of the sports car with a sickening crunch of metal, sending a shower of sparks flying into the night.
Dante screamed in panic, fighting the steering wheel as the sports car fishtailed violently.
Vincent rammed him again—harder this time.
The sports car spun out, slamming sideways into a thick oak tree at the edge of the cliff. The front end crumpled like paper, the airbag deploying with a loud pop.
Vincent brought his SUV to a screeching halt blocking the road, stepped out into the pouring rain, and walked toward the wrecked car with measured, unhurried steps.
He pulled the driver’s side door open. It shrieked in protest before tearing completely off its hinges.
Dante was slumped over the steering wheel, coughing violently, blood trickling from his nose and forehead. He looked up, his eyes wide with sheer terror as Vincent reached in, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and hauled him out onto the wet asphalt.
"Please... Vinnie... don't," Dante sobbed, clawing at Vincent’s hands.
Vincent didn't say a word. He raised his fist and drove it straight into Dante’s jaw with the force of a hydraulic press. Dante crumpled instantly, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
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Vincent stood over him in the rain, chest heaving, his face dark and impassive.
The rat was caught. But the most important battle of the night was still waiting for him back at the hospital.
