Chapter 7 - The Shadow Syndicate's Retaliation
The subterranean council chamber turned into a chaotic arena of smoke,
shattering wood,
and deafening gunfire within seconds.
Thick,
blue chemical smoke began pouring through the air conditioning vents in the ceiling,
filling the room with a bitter,
stinging haze that burned my eyes and throat.
Above us,
the glass skylight shattered into thousands of sharp fragments as four figures dressed in black tactical gear rappelled down thick ropes into the center of the room.
They were armed with short-barreled automatic carbines,
firing controlled bursts into the corner where the four New York bosses were scrambling for cover.
Carmine pulled me by my jacket collar,
dragging me behind the thick oak leg of the table as bullets splintered the mahogany tabletop above our heads.
"Hold onto that binder,
Elena!"
Carmine shouted over the roar of the assault.
Gabriel was already on his feet,
using his uninjured arm to fire three precise shots toward the nearest attacker.
The first shooter spun backward,
his harness snapping as his body crashed hard onto the marble floor.
"They aren't here to capture anyone!"
I yelled to Carmine,
wiping tears from my burning eyes.
"That smoke is a toxic nerve agent variant!"
"It's designed to paralyze your breathing in less than three minutes!"
Carmine grabbed a bottle of vintage mineral water from the fallen tray on the floor,
poured it generously over a cloth dinner napkin,
and slapped it over my mouth and nose.
"Cover your face!"
Carmine commanded.
"Gabriel,
we need to get to the lower laundry service tunnel!"
Don Valenti's lieutenants were returning fire,
creating a wall of noise that echoed off the stone walls.
Don Moretti,
clutching his healing knee,
was struggling to crawl toward the rear exit.
Gabriel reached down,
grunted with effort,
and hauled the older boss to his feet by his collar.
"Move,
you old fool!"
Gabriel barked,
shoving Moretti toward the service corridor.
I clutched the heavy leather binder against my stomach,
keeping low as we rushed through a narrow metal door hidden behind a velvet wall tapestry.
We burst into a long,
tiled service corridor that smelled strongly of industrial bleach,
steam pipes,
and wet linen.
Behind us,
the heavy metal door slammed shut,
and Carmine threw the mechanical lock bolt,
temporarily trapping the attackers inside the council chamber.
"Where does this tunnel lead?"
Gabriel asked,
his breathing heavy,
his white shirt showing fresh spots of blood where his shoulder wound was straining under the exertion.
"It leads to the lower boiler room and the laundry docks along the East River,"
I answered,
remembering the floor plans of old Manhattan commercial buildings I had studied during my textile training.
"There are two high-capacity ventilation fans at the end of this hall,"
I added,
"if I can reverse the motor controls,"
"it will blow the chemical smoke back into the chamber and clear our escape route."
"Do it!"
Gabriel authorized without hesitation.
We sprinted down the slick concrete stairs,
reaching a massive mechanical room filled with humming electric dynamos and thick steam pipes.
I located the main electrical control box mounted on the brick wall.
Using a heavy screwdriver pulled from Carmine's tactical pouch,
I jammed the steel blade into the manual override relay,
forcing the twin five-horsepower exhaust fans to switch into full reverse intake mode.
A loud,
deafening roar echoed through the ductwork as the fans spun to maximum speed,
sucking the thick blue smoke out of the service corridor and blasting it back into the main hallway where the mercenaries were advancing.
Screams of confusion and coughing fits echoed through the metal vents from the floor above.
"Clear path!"
Carmine yelled,
pushing open the final heavy iron fire exit at the end of the basement tunnel.
We burst out into the cold,
rainy night,
emerging in a quiet loading dock overlooking the dark,
swirling waters of the East River.
Waiting at the pier was a dark grey,
unmarked high-speed offshore boat,
its dual engines idling with a deep,
rhythmic rumble.
A guard standing at the bow raised a spotlight,
flashing it twice in a rapid signal.
"Get aboard!"
Gabriel commanded Don Moretti and the remaining bosses.
As we stepped onto the deck of the vessel,
Carmine cast off the heavy mooring lines,
May you like
and the boat surged forward into the dark river,
leaving the burning silhouette of the Gotham Club behind us in the Manhattan rain.
