Chapter 8 - Ambush at the Charles
Night fell over Boston with a torrential fury. Rain lashed against the armored windshield of the three black SUVs speeding through the winding roads of Brookline toward the sprawling estate of Judge Arthur Barrett.
In the second SUV, Dominic sat in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the rain-slicked pavement ahead. Beside him, Marco checked the chamber of his sidearm with a sharp metallic click.
“Dominic, wait!”
Elena’s voice rang in Dominic’s memory. Before he had walked out of the penthouse, she had cornered him in the private foyer, her face streaked with tears.
*“If you go out there and kill someone, you go to prison,” she had pleaded, her small hands grabbing his lapels. “And if you go to prison, you leave them fatherless all over again! Don’t you dare do that to them, Dominic! Win this with your mind, not a gun!”*
Dominic had looked down at her, memorizing the desperate love in her eyes, and for the first time in his life, he had promised a woman that he would come back whole.
He wasn't going to kill Arthur Barrett. He was going to bury him alive beneath his own sins.
“We’re two minutes out, Boss,” Marco announced as the convoy rounded a sharp, wooded curve along the Charles River Parkway.
Suddenly, headlights flared in the darkness ahead.
A heavy flatbed commercial truck pulled out from an access road, jackknifing directly across the two-lane highway, blocking the asphalt entirely.
“Brace!” Marco roared, slamming his foot on the brake.
Tires screeched violently across the wet asphalt. The lead SUV swerved, clipping the side of the truck with a thunderous crunch of twisted metal before coming to a violent stop in the ditch.
Behind them, two black pickup trucks accelerated out of the tree line, boxing in Dominic’s SUV from the rear.
“Ambush!” Marco yelled, drawing his weapon. “They knew we were coming!”
Before Dominic could issue an order, the side windows of the rear pickup trucks dropped. Men dressed in tactical black gear, their faces hidden behind ballistic masks, raised semi-automatic shotguns.
*BANG! BANG! BANG!*
Heavy-gauge buckshot slammed against the armored glass of Dominic’s SUV, spider-webbing the thick reinforced polycarbonate but failing to penetrate.
“Barrett didn't send state troopers,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into absolute ice as adrenaline flooded his veins. “These are dock enforcers. He hired muscle from the Southie syndicates.”
Dominic reached beneath his seat and pulled out a heavy modified Heckler & Koch pistol.
“Marco, pop the smoke canisters on the rear bumper. Now.”
Marco hit a red toggle beneath the steering wheel. Dense, suffocating white smoke erupted from the rear bumper, instantly blanketing the rainy road in an impenetrable fog.
The gunfire faltered as the attackers lost their sightlines.
Dominic kicked his door open into the smoke. He rolled out into the wet ditch, the cold rain instantly soaking his shirt. Through the swirling white mist, he spotted two silhouettes advancing toward the SUV, weapons raised.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He rose like a shadow from the embankment.
Two sharp cracks echoed above the roar of the rain. The bullets struck with pinpoint precision—not lethal, but shattering the right kneecaps of both men. They collapsed into the asphalt, screaming in agony.
Dominic surged forward through the smoke. A third man swung the stock of a shotgun toward his head. Dominic ducked beneath the blow, drove his left shoulder into the man’s ribs, and drove the butt of his heavy steel pistol directly into the attacker’s jaw with brutal, bone-cracking efficiency. The man crumpled unconscious to the pavement.
Within forty-five seconds, the smoke began to clear under the driving rain.
Six attackers lay incapacitated on the asphalt, groaning in pain. The remaining men in the pickup trucks threw their vehicles into reverse, tires spinning wildly against the wet road as they fled into the night.
Dominic stood in the middle of the highway, rain dripping from his dark hair, his gun lowered at his side. He wasn't breathing heavily. His suit was ruined, covered in mud and grease, but his eyes were blazing with unholy fire.
He walked over to the man he had dislocated the jaw of, knelt down, and reached into the man’s tactical vest. He pulled out a encrypted burner phone.
The screen was still glowing.
A text message on the screen read: *Ensure the vehicle does not reach Brookline. The Judge wants him neutralized before midnight.*
Dominic grabbed the phone. He pressed redial.
After two rings, an arrogant, trembling voice answered: “Is it handled? Is he dead?”
Dominic brought the phone to his ear, his voice slicing through the rain like a guillotine.
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“I’m ten minutes from your front door, Arthur,” Dominic whispered. “Have your tea poured. Because when I walk into your study, your entire life is over.”
***
