Chapter 37 - Ambush at the Black Docks
The reality hit Arthur like a physical blow.
His father had not ordered the strike at the masquerade.
He had been overthrown by his own syndicate.
"Vance took the entire organization in a single night," Arthur muttered, his mind racing through every alliance his family had built.
"He doesn't have the buyer's payment yet," Clara said, already loading magazines into two compact tactical pistols. "The transaction requires the physical key from the diamond."
She tossed a weapon to Arthur, who caught it instinctively with his right hand.
"How much time do we have?" he asked, racking the slide.
"Seventy minutes before Vance executes Beatrice and boards a private freighter out of the Brooklyn terminal," Clara replied.
Suddenly, the warehouse windows shattered inward in a hail of automatic gunfire.
Flashbang grenades bounced across the concrete floor, detonating with concussive, blinding roars.
"Down!" Arthur roared, tackling Clara behind the heavy steel surgical table as bullets shredded the equipment racks around them.
Red laser sights cut through the smoke.
Four heavily armored operatives advanced through the shattered entryway, moving in a tight tactical diamond.
"They tracked the radio signal!" Clara coughed through the acrid smoke.
"Stay behind me!" Arthur yelled.
He leaned out from behind the steel barrier, firing three controlled shots that dropped the lead operative before the man could bring his rifle to bear.
Clara rolled across the open floor with lethal, fluid grace.
She came up on one knee, firing twice beneath the undercarriage of a parked van.
The rounds found the ankles of the flanking mercenaries, sending them crashing to the floor where Arthur finished them with precision headshots.
The fourth operative retreated toward the entrance, firing blindly behind him.
Clara vaulted over the hood of the van, throwing an empty magazine directly into the man’s face to break his aim.
Before he could recover, she closed the distance, driving her combat knife through the seam between his helmet and body armor.
The operative collapsed with a muffled gurgle.
Arthur stood in the center of the smoking warehouse, staring at Clara as she pulled her blade free and wiped it on the dead man's sleeve.
She looked up at him through strands of dark, sweat-soaked hair.
The elegant, fragile bride from the cathedral was completely gone.
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Standing in her place was the deadliest weapon the Sterling Dynasty had ever built.
"We need a vehicle," she said calmly, checking the dead operative's pockets for keys. "We have fifty-five minutes to save your sister."
