Chapter 2 - The Architect of Agony
The scream on the other end of the line cut off abruptly,
leaving nothing but the static of my own heartbeat.
I stood up slowly,
the girl still clinging to my hand as if I were her only anchor in a storm.
"Victor,"
I said,
not looking away from the darkness of the warehouse rafters.
"Get her to the safe house."
"The one in the hills,"
"not the city."
"Take ten men,"
"the best we have,"
"and tell them if a single hair on her head is harmed,"
"their families will vanish from the earth."
Victor nodded,
his expression grim,
and he knelt to pick up the girl.
She looked at me,
her green eyes wide with sudden fear.
"Are you coming,
Daddy?"
she asked,
her voice small and fragile.
"I have to go get Mommy,"
I told her,
forcing my face into a mask of calm I did not feel.
"I will find you soon,"
"I promise."
She reached out and patted my cheek,
a gesture so tender it felt like a knife to the ribs.
"Be careful,"
"the mean man has many shadows."
I watched them leave,
the SUV's taillights disappearing into the midnight fog of the docks.
Once they were gone,
the mask dropped.
I turned toward the remaining men,
my eyes burning with a fire that had been smoldering since the day of the explosion.
"Find out who signed the death certificates eight years ago,"
I commanded.
"Find the mortician,"
"the guards who were on duty at the safe house,"
"and the man who told me the bodies were recovered."
"Bring them to me."
"I don't want them dead,"
"I want them talkative."
One of my lieutenants,
Marco,
stepped forward with a tablet.
"Boss,"
"the signal from Ricardo's call came from the old distillery district."
"It's a maze of tunnels and reinforced basements."
"He's been preparing this for a long time."
I walked to the table where my maps were laid out,
my mind working with a cold,
calculating precision.
Ricardo hadn't just kidnapped Elena;
he had stolen eight years of my life.
He had let me mourn a wife who was still breathing,
and a daughter who was growing up in a cage.
Every moment of grief I had felt,
every night I had spent drinking myself into a stupor to forget the flames,
had been a victory for him.
The depth of the betrayal was staggering,
reaching into the very roots of my organization.
Someone had helped him.
Someone had faked the DNA,
the dental records,
the charred remains I had wept over.
"Load the gear,"
I said,
checking the slide of my custom Beretta.
"We're going to the distillery."
"And tell the men,"
"no prisoners."
May you like
"Tonight,"
"Stonebridge will burn in the color of De Luca red."
