My Daughter's Birdhouse Was Smashed by Syndicate Muscle, Revealing an Antique Key to a Sealed Underground Vault and a 30-Year Mob Murder
The gunfire ripped through the building, a frantic, chaotic symphony of pops and ricochets. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Stay down, Chloe!” I ordered, pulling her closer in the tight conduit shaft.
The sounds of distant sirens grew louder, closer. They were no longer just at the perimeter. They were at the building.
Uncle Frank’s broadcast. It was working.
Up in the lobby, Chief Inspector Driscoll stood among Viktor’s remaining crew. His face was blotchy red, slick with sweat. His handheld radio, against all odds, was picking up snippets of local news.
“…unprecedented data leak… federal agents responding… accusations against Mayor Sterling and Underboss Hennessey…”
Driscoll’s eyes darted frantically. The jig was up. His lifetime of crooked deals, his gambling debts, his career – all of it was crashing down. Federal marshals, he knew, didn’t play games. Life in prison.
He saw Viktor’s last enforcer, a hulking man named Nowak, standing guard by the main door. Nowak had a duffel bag, undoubtedly containing the payoff money.
“My money!” Driscoll screamed, his voice cracking. “Give me my money!”
He pulled his sidearm from its holster, shaking. His eyes were wild, desperate.
Nowak, a hardened syndicate veteran, just stared at him, bewildered. “Are you crazy, old man?”
Driscoll fired. The shot went wide, embedding itself in the plaster wall with a deafening crack.
Nowak instinctively drew his own weapon, firing back.
The lobby erupted. Driscoll, terrified and cornered, sprayed bullets wildly. Viktor’s other men, caught between the mad inspector and the encroaching sirens, returned fire.
Glass shattered. Plaster exploded. It was a full-blown gunfight at the building’s entrance.
Outside, Detective Varga, hearing the impossible sounds of a shootout from inside a “quarantined” building, didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her shotgun.
“Federal marshals, move!” she yelled into her shoulder mic, bypassing the now-flickering jammer. “Breach the front door! Shots fired!”
The federal marshals, who had already been mobilized by Frank’s broadcast, surged forward. Their heavy boots crunched on the shattered glass of the front entrance.
The sounds of the firefight below intensified, echoing through the pipes. I knew what it meant. The cavalry was here. But so was Viktor. And he was coming for me.
The conduit shaft was getting too narrow. I had to find a way to the vault, to confront Viktor.
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