Chapter 9 - The Final Strike
The private airfield outside Seattle was shrouded in a thick, pre-dawn fog. A sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream jet sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines humming with suppressed power.
Marcus Vance stood near the open loading ramp of a secondary hangar, his tailored white suit contrasting sharply with the grim industrial backdrop. Beside him, four armed guards held automatic weapons, watching the perimeter with nervous eyes.
"You sure the informant is reliable?" Marcus asked, checking his gold Rolex.
"Salvatore’s safehouse in the Cascades was hit," one of his lieutenants replied smoothly. "His men are scattered. If we hit his primary downtown shipping warehouse tonight while he’s distracted, we burn his entire supply chain to the ground."
"Good," Marcus smiled, a cruel, predatory grin spreading across his face. "And the girl? Did we secure the child?"
"Not yet, sir. But—"
*Clack.*
A single, chilling sound echoed from the dark shadows behind the hangar doors.
Marcus spun around.
Stepping out of the fog wasn't a hit squad. It was just one man.
Dante Salvatore walked slowly toward them, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his dark wool coat billowing slightly behind him in the cold morning wind. Behind him, dozens of red laser sights flickered to life in the darkness, pointing straight at Marcus and his men from every corner of the airfield.
"Looking for someone, Marcus?" Dante’s voice cut through the fog, smooth as glass and twice as sharp.
Marcus’s face drained of color. He staggered backward, his hand fumbling for the pistol inside his jacket. "Kill him! Fire!"
Before Marcus’s men could raise their weapons, a deafening volley of synchronized gunfire erupted from the shadows. The guards dropped their weapons instantly, falling to the concrete.
Marcus froze, his hands hovering empty in the air as Dante stopped three feet away from him, his blue eyes locked onto Marcus’s terrified face with absolute, freezing contempt.
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"You tried to touch my daughter, Marcus," Dante whispered, stepping forward and grabbing him by the throat, lifting him off his feet with effortless strength. "That was your first mistake."
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