184 When Manhattan’s Most Feared Crime Boss Found His Traumatized Daughter Asleep in My Waitress Apron, He Thought I Was a Stranger—Until He Discovered My Secret Past Was the Only Key to Saving His Missing Wife / Chapter 57 / 100

Chapter 57 - Blood Debt

Two men in black tactical gear breached the frame, their weapons equipped with suppressors, sweeping the room with weapon-mounted lights that cut through the shadows like white razors.

"Hold fire!" the lead man barked, his voice muffled by a balaclava. "The girl Vance is priority! Take her alive!"

He didn't get the chance.

Frank fired from behind the oak pillar. The sharp crack of the unsuppressed .38 was deafening in the enclosed parlor. The lead operative grunted, his knee buckling as the lead slug punched through his tactical pants, sending him crashing into the shattered glass on the floor.

The second operative pivoted, his rifle raising toward Frank, but I was already moving.

I had spent eight years dodging hot grease, swinging heavy steel soup kettles, and surviving the brutal, frantic rhythms of a Manhattan lunch rush. When a body moves with intent, momentum is momentum.

I drove the flattened end of the steel crowbar directly into the side of the second man’s helmet.

The impact rang like a cracked bell. The operative staggered sideways, his rifle discharging a three-round burst into the plaster ceiling, raining white dust over the Persian rug. Before he could recover his balance, I hooked the curved end of the bar behind his ankle and yanked with everything I had.

He hit the floor hard, his head bouncing off the mahogany baseboard. I dropped my knee onto his chest, pressing the edge of the bar against his windpipe.

"Who sent you?" I hissed, rain pouring through the shattered doors, soaking my hair and face. "Sterling doesn't breach a residential brownstone on Riverside unless he’s desperate. Why didn't he wait for the pier?"

The man under my knee coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. He didn't reach for his sidearm; he knew Frank’s revolver was aimed directly between his eyes.

"The... the timeline moved," he choked out, his eyes wide with fear. "Sterling’s campaign... the media found the off-shore accounts twenty minutes ago. The federal marshals are drafting a warrant. Sterling is clearing the board tonight. If he doesn't have the vault open by midnight, he’s fleeing on an unmarked Gulfstream from Teterboro."

"And Clara?" I pressed the bar harder. "Where is she?"

"She isn't at the pier," the man gasped, his fingernails digging into my wrist. "She’s at the old grain terminal on Gowanus Canal. They’re... they’re putting her on the transport to the airfield right now."

Frank cursed and lowered his weapon slightly. "Gowanus. It’s an old concrete silo. Carlo looked there ten years ago, but the perimeter was too hot."

"He was lying to you about the pier," I said, looking back at Pendelton, who was already on his feet, securing the laptop. "He never intended to trade her at Pier 88. He wanted me to go to the terminal so his clean-up crew could grab me, take me to Foley Square, and execute my mother in Brooklyn at the same time."

I looked down at the operative. I took his sidearm from his tactical holster—a sleek, black Glock 19—checked the chamber, and flicked the safety off.

"Tell your team outside that the brownstone is clear and you have the asset," I said, pressing the cold barrel to his forehead.

"He’ll kill me," the man whispered.

"I will kill you right now," I replied, my voice completely steady. "You have five seconds to key your shoulder mic, or Frank puts you in the cellar under the floorboards where nobody will find your badge for sixty years."

The man looked at my eyes. He saw Marcus Vance’s blood, Carlo’s training, and eight years of Hell’s Kitchen survival staring back at him.

He reached trembling fingers up to his radio clip and pressed the transmit button.

"Eagle Two to transport," he said, his voice cracking. "Target secured. We’re moving the Vance girl to Gowanus. Clear the LZ."