Chapter 5 - The Poisoned Wire Taps
The air in the basement lab grew instantly colder as the heavy steel door locked us in darkness.
Carmine reacted with light-ning speed,
grabbing my shoulder with one massive hand and shoving me violently behind a heavy stainless steel worktable just as a flash of muzzle light blinded the room.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
High-caliber bullets slammed into the metal table above our heads,
sending hot sparks raining down onto our clothes.
"Stay down!"
Carmine roared,
leaning out from behind the table and firing three rapid shots into the darkness with his silenced pistol.
The suppressed gunshots sounded like heavy coughs in the enclosed concrete space.
A sharp yell of pain echoed from the far side of the room,
followed by the heavy thud of a body collapsing against a rack of glass beakers.
Shattering glass chimed like tiny bells across the floor.
Carmine pulled a red chemical flare from his tactical vest,
struck the top against the concrete floor,
and tossed it high into the air toward the center of the room.
The flare ignited with a brilliant,
hissing crimson flame,
illuminating two men dressed in dark tactical gear standing near the main chemical vault.
"Marco's cleanup crew!"
Carmine yelled,
firing two precise shots that took down the second gunman before he could bring his weapon to bear.
Silence returned to the room,
broken only by the loud,
hissing sound of the red flare burning on the concrete floor and the heavy sound of Carmine's breathing.
He stepped out from behind the steel table,
his weapon pointed low,
checking the pulse of the two fallen men.
"Clear,"
Carmine muttered,
kicking their weapons away across the floor.
"They were waiting here to destroy the evidence before we could find it."
I slid out from under the table,
my hands covered in dust and glass fragments,
but my grip remained tight on the heavy leather binder I had pulled from the safe.
"We need to get back to Alpine,"
I said,
my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"If Marco sent a crew here,"
"he knows we found out about the Paterson mill."
Carmine nodded grimly,
reloading his pistol with a fresh magazine.
"He knows his entire operation is exposed."
We raced back up the narrow concrete steps,
leaving the red flare burning in the darkness behind us,
and burst out into the storm-drenched alleyway.
The drive back up Route 9W toward Alpine was a blur of flashing rain,
swirling mist,
and white knuckles on the steering wheel.
Carmine drove the armored Suburban at ninety miles an hour,
weaving through late-night highway traffic as thunder shook the dark sky above us.
When we finally turned onto the winding private road leading to the Falcone estate,
something was horribly wrong.
The massive wrought-iron security gates at the main entrance were hanging wide open.
The two guard booths were completely dark,
their thick safety glass shattered outward into the driveway.
"Hold on!"
Carmine barked,
flooring the accelerator.
The Suburban roared up the winding driveway,
its tires spraying gravel across the manicured lawns,
and skidded to a halt in front of the main mansion.
The entire estate was pitch black.
The exterior floodlights,
the interior chandeliers,
and the security gate systems were completely dead—a total power blackout.
"They cut the main power lines and destroyed the backup generators,"
Carmine said,
pulling two heavy flashlights from the glove compartment and tossing one to me.
"Stay behind me,"
he instructed solemnly.
"Gabriel is inside that house with only three bodyguards."
We stepped onto the grand front porch,
passing the motionless bodies of two estate guards near the entrance.
Inside,
the mansion was a tomb of shadow and silence.
The familiar smell of bleach and expensive wax was replaced by the acrid stench of burned gunpowder and electrical short-circuits.
Carmine led the way through the cavernous foyer,
his flashlight beam sweeping across shattered vases,
bullet-marked plaster,
and torn oil paintings.
"Gabriel!"
Carmine called out in a low,
intense whisper.
"Gabriel,
it's Carmine!"
A single gunshot echoed from the third-floor hallway above us,
followed by the sound of heavy boots running across hardwood floors.
"They're upstairs!"
I cried out,
recognizing the direction of the sound.
"That's where Gabriel's medical suite is!"
We sprinted up the grand spiral staircase,
taking the steps three at a time in the pitch darkness.
As we reached the third-floor landing,
a shadow detached itself from the wall near my guest suite and lunged directly at me with a heavy iron crowbar.
I ducked instinctively,
feeling the rush of air as the heavy bar whistled inches above my head and slammed into the drywall behind me.
I didn't panic.
I reached into my rain jacket,
pulled out a small aerosol bottle of chemical solvent I had taken from the Paterson lab,
and sprayed it directly into the attacker's face.
The gunman let out a blood-curdling scream as the concentrated industrial solvent hit his eyes,
dropping the crowbar and clutching his face in agony.
Carmine instantly stepped in,
delivering a crushing blow with the butt of his pistol that sent the man crashing unconscious to the floor.
"Nice work with the chemical bottle,"
Carmine grunted,
not slowing his pace for a single second.
We reached Gabriel's master bedroom suit at the end of the long corridor.
The heavy reinforced oak door was hanging off its hinges,
riddled with large-caliber bullet holes.
Inside,
the scene was chaotic.
Two dead hitmen lay on the Persian rug near the foot of the bed.
Standing near the center of the room,
framed against the window light,
was Gabriel Falcone himself.
He wasn't in a wheelchair.
He was standing upright on his own two feet,
dressed in his dark trousers and a dark leather holster strapped across his chest.
In his right hand,
he held a heavy black semi-automatic pistol,
smoke still rising lazily from the barrel.
Sitting in the corner of the room,
his hands zip-tied behind his back,
his face bruised and bleeding,
was Marco Falcone.
"You're late,
Carmine,"
Gabriel said calmly,
stepping over one of the fallen bodies as if it were a minor inconvenience.
"I had to handle three of Marco's friends myself."
Carmine lowered his weapon,
taking a deep breath of relief.
"We got the ledger from the Paterson facility,
boss,"
Carmine reported,
pointing toward the thick leather binder in my hands.
"It's all here,"
Carmine added.
"The whole syndicate plot,"
"the poison manifests,"
"and the list of every boss he was planning to execute."
Gabriel turned slowly toward his brother,
his eyes colder than the storm raging outside the window.
"You tried to kill me in my own bed,
Marco,"
Gabriel said softly.
"You brought hitmen into my home,"
"you cut my power,"
"and you tried to destroy everything our father built."
Marco looked up from the floor,
spitting blood onto the rug.
"You were weak,
Gabriel!"
Marco spat out viciously.
"You were soft!"
"You let a twenty-two-year-old maid run around your house making decisions!"
"This family needed strong leadership,"
"not an old man dying of an infected shoulder!"
Gabriel stepped closer,
pressing the cold steel barrel of his pistol against Marco's forehead.
"This maid,"
Gabriel said,
looking over at me with a look of profound respect,
"has more brains in her little finger than you have in your entire greedy head."
"She saved my life,"
Gabriel added,
"and she just gave me the evidence I need to wipe your entire faction off the map."
Gabriel looked back at Carmine and me.
"The storm is clearing,"
Gabriel announced,
his voice carrying the absolute weight of command.
"Call a emergency meeting of the Commission in New York for tomorrow night."
"Bring the ledger,"
"bring the poisoned thread,"
May you like
"and bring Elena."
He looked at me with a firm nod.
