Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Service Tunnel
In the absolute blackness of the subterranean hallway, my senses shifted into a hyper-focused, animal survival state that I hadn't needed since my early days in the Brooklyn turf wars.
I reached down, lifted Zoe off the floor with one arm, and tucked her small body against my hip. She didn't struggle; she clung to the collar of my heavy cashmere coat with both hands, her wet, polish-slicked fingers digging into the fabric, her face buried into the crook of my neck.
I picked up her battered, one-eyed teddy bear from the bench with my free hand, stuffed it into my pocket, and stepped back into the deepest recess of the shoe-shine alcove.
The footsteps were getting closer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the distinctive, measured tread of trained operators using rubber-soled combat boots. They were coming from the direction of the north service door—the very door I had used to enter the house ten minutes ago. Silvio had given them the master security key.
"Check the laundry suite," a voice whispered from the corridor. It was low, raspy, masked by the plastic diaphragm of a tactical radio headset. "Silvio said the car is parked outside the spruce line. He’s down here somewhere."
"What about the staff?" a second voice answered. "The housekeeper and her kid are in the east wing."
"Frankie said clear the basement," the first voice replied cold, flat, merciless. "No witnesses. If the kid sees anything, put a round in her. We pin the whole thing on a rival hit squad from New York."
Against my neck, I felt Zoe’s small body go completely rigid. She had heard it. Even at seven years old, she understood what those words meant.
I felt a dark, violent satisfaction settle into my core.
They weren't just coming for me. They were coming for a sick mother and a small girl who drew pictures with crayons.
They had turned a professional takeover into something personal. And in my world, when something becomes personal, the rules of corporate mercy cease to exist.
I moved.
Carrying Zoe, I backed out of the shoe-shine room through a narrow rear exit—a hidden access panel built into the wood paneling that led directly into the estate's old coal chute, a feature left over from the original 1920s construction. I slid the wooden panel shut behind us without making a sound, leaving it cracked by less than a quarter of an inch.
Through the tiny gap, I watched the hallway outside.
Two seconds later, a pale green beam of infrared light swept across the whitewashed brick wall of the shoe-shine room.
Two figures stepped into the frame. They were dressed in dark, tactical clothing, wearing night-vision goggles mounted to sleek ballistic helmets. Both men carried suppressed submachine guns—MP5SDs—held at the ready, their weapon lights turned off to avoid alerting anyone in the dark.
One of them stepped into the shoe-shine alcove.
His boot landed directly in the puddle of black shoe polish Zoe had left on the white tile.
His foot slipped slightly, his heel sliding across the greasy floor with a sharp, wet squeak.
"Watch your step," the second man hissed under his breath, sweeping his weapon toward the dark corners. "Floor’s wet."
The first man looked down, his night-vision goggles tilting toward the bench.
He saw the ruined John Lobb Oxford sitting on the marble counter. He saw the open tin of Lincoln Black polish. And he saw the small, wooden step-stool knocked onto its side.
"Someone was in here," the operator whispered, raising his weapon higher, his posture suddenly rigid. "Fresh polish. The tin is still warm."
"Search the stalls!" the second operator commanded.
I didn't wait for them to find the hidden coal chute.
I set Zoe down on the dusty concrete floor of the chute behind me. I reached into my coat, pulled out my heavy SIG Sauer P226, and attached the dark, cylindrical steel suppressor from my inner pocket, screwing it onto the threaded barrel with three fast, precise twists.
I leaned close to Zoe’s ear. "Stay right here. Don't move until I come back for you."
She nodded frantically in the dark, her hands clutching her pajama knees.
I slid through the narrow access panel like a shadow breaking off from the wall.
The first operator was standing with his back to the chute, his submachine gun pointed toward the empty laundry stalls twenty feet away.
I didn't call out. I didn't offer a warning.
I stepped up behind him, wrapped my left arm around his throat in a brutal, crushing sleeper choke, and drove the heavy steel butt of my pistol into the soft junction at the base of his skull.
THUD.
It was a dull, sickening sound. The man’s eyes rolled back behind his tactical goggles, his knees buckling instantly as his nervous system shut down. I caught his body before his gear could clatter against the floor, lowering him soundlessly to the concrete tile, disarming him of his submachine gun with one smooth movement of my right hand.
The second operator turned his head at the faint rustle of fabric.
"Jansen?" he whispered into the dark, sweeping his green infrared light back toward the alcove. "What was that?"
He didn't get an answer.
I stepped out from behind the brick pillar, raised the P226, and pulled the trigger twice.
Pfft. Pfft.
The suppressed 9mm rounds cracked through the air with a faint, metallic hiss—no louder than a heavy stapler punching through cardboard.
The first round struck the second operator precisely in the center of his chest armor, throwing him off balance. The second round, fired a fraction of a second later, caught him directly beneath the lower edge of his tactical helmet, severing his brainstem instantly.
He dropped like a sack of wet flour, his body hitting the floor with a heavy, hollow thud.
Silence returned to the basement corridor.
I stood over the two fallen men, my chest heaving silently, the hot smell of burnt cordite and copper mingling with the sharp, chemical odor of the black shoe polish.
I crouched down, stripped the second operator of his night-vision goggles, his tactical radio, and his sidearm, and put the goggles over my own eyes.
The world instantly transformed into a bright, ghostly green landscape of sharp edges, shadows, and crisp thermal outlines.
I turned back to the coal chute.
Zoe was peeking through the cracked wood panel, her wide brown eyes glowing like twin silver coins in the green display of my night-vision lens. She had seen the bodies. She had heard the dull impact of the suppressed gunshots.
Yet she didn't scream. She didn't run.
She looked at me—at Michael Romano, standing in the middle of a blood-stained basement corridor with a gun in my hand and a tactical headset strapped to my head—and she simply opened the panel wider, holding out her small, dirty hand.
"Are the bad men gone, Mr. Romano?" she asked softly.
May you like
I walked over, picked her up again, and set her back on her feet, leaning down until I was level with her small face.
"Those two are gone, Zoe," I said, my voice low and dark as a winter storm. "Now we’re going to go get the rest of them."
