Chapter 13 - THE CALIBRATION OF RUIN
The steel of the hatch groaned under the assault of the Romanos,
the sound a violent,
percussive heartbeat that filled the safe room.
I stood at the bottom of the ladder,
my rifle aimed upward,
knowing that the moment that door buckled,
the air would be filled with more than just dust.
"Eighty percent!"
Emily called out,
her voice high and tight with a tension that was vibrating through the air.
"Almost there,
Richard!"
"Stay back from the ladder!"
I shouted,
ignoring the sweat stinging my eyes.
A seam appeared in the ceiling,
a jagged line of light as the heavy bolts began to shear away under the pressure of a hydraulic spreader.
They weren't just using hammers anymore;
they were using professional-grade breaching equipment.
Lorenzo was determined to wipe me off the face of the earth before the sun reached its zenith.
The hatch gave way with a screech of tortured metal,
falling inward and crashing onto the floor of the safe room with a deafening bang.
A flashbang grenade dropped through the opening immediately afterward.
"Close your eyes!"
I roared,
turning my face away just as the world exploded into a blinding,
white-hot wall of sound.
My vision was a smear of colors,
my ears ringing with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.
But I didn't need to see to fire.
I knew the angle.
I knew the distance.
I pulled the trigger,
the rifle bucking in my hands as I sent a stream of lead into the opening above.
I heard a grunt of pain,
the sound of a body tumbling down the ladder,
but I didn't stop.
"Ninety-five percent!"
Emily’s voice reached me through the haze,
sounding like it was coming from the bottom of an ocean.
"It’s almost done!"
I saw a shadow move at the edge of the opening,
and I fired again,
but my rifle clicked empty.
"Damn it!"
I reached for my sidearm,
but a boot struck me in the chest,
sending me flying backward into the storage crates.
I hit the floor hard,
the air driven from my lungs,
my vision swimming as a figure dropped down from the ceiling.
It was Lorenzo’s nephew,
Dante—a man known for his cruelty and his lack of imagination.
He held a submachine gun,
a smirk of triumph crossing his face as he looked at me.
"The King of Chicago,"
he sneered,
his voice dripping with a mockery that set my blood on fire.
"Look at you.
Hiding in the dirt like a rat."
He turned his gaze toward Emily,
who was still standing by the console,
her hand hover over the final button.
"And who is this?
The little nurse who thinks she can play with the big boys?"
"Don't touch her,"
I wheezed,
trying to find the strength to move my limbs.
"Oh,
I'm going to do a lot more than touch her,"
Dante said,
stepping toward her.
"After I get those files,
I'm going to show her what happens to people who interfere with Romano business."
Emily didn't move.
She didn't scream.
She just looked at the screen,
where the bar had finally turned a brilliant,
shining blue.
"It's done,"
she said,
her voice remarkably cold.
Dante frowned.
"What's done?"
"The truth,"
she replied,
turning to look him in the eye.
"The evidence of every murder,
every bribe,
and every betrayal your family has committed for twenty years is currently being downloaded by the District Attorney and the Chicago Tribune."
Dante’s face went pale,
the smirk vanishing like mist in a storm.
"You're lying."
"Check your phone,
Dante,"
I said,
slowly pushing myself up from the floor.
"I'm sure the news is already breaking.
You're not a soldier anymore.
You're a fugitive."
For a split second,
Dante hesitated,
his grip on the gun loosening as his mind struggled to process the shift in power.
That was all the time I needed.
I lunged forward,
my hand closing around the knife hidden in my boot.
I drove the blade into his thigh,
twisting it with a savage desperation.
He screamed,
his weapon firing wildly into the ceiling as he collapsed to one knee.
I grabbed the barrel of his gun and swung it around,
striking him across the temple with the heavy metal stock.
He crumpled into a heap,
unconscious before he hit the ground.
I stood over him,
my chest heaving,
my body a map of pain and exhaustion.
I looked at Emily.
She was staring at Dante,
her face pale,
the reality of what we had just done sinking in.
"Is it really over?"
she asked.
"The war is over,"
I said,
limping toward her.
"But the aftermath...
that’s just beginning."
I took her hand,
her skin cold against mine,
and for a moment,
we just stood there in the wreckage of the safe room.
The silence was different now.
May you like
It wasn't the silence of a tomb.
It was the silence of a clean slate.
