CHAPTER TWELVE
GAGE
“P aint It, Black” by The Rolling Stones blares from the chopper’s speakers. The whir of the blades drones a staccato rhythm that threatens to outshine it. And high-pitched explosions whistle and boom in the distance, muffled by the roaring chaos of my immediate position. But it all fuses together to be the melody of imminent victory.
I’m perched at the helicopter’s open door. Legs dangling. The fruity taste of bourbon on my lips. Suited up for war, with all the ease of a Sunday picnic. Because this is my slice of American apple pie. The humid night air whipping against my skin. The band of brothers flying into battle beside me. The speckled sky, smoky haze, and bursts of dazzling patriotic light.
I’ll be adding to that—with my own spin, of course.
Fireworks have always made me downright giddy.
Fuck, I love it when life comes full circle.
Sent to be trained by the best to become an assassin, to take out the enemy, to lay down my life for traitorous pursuits, all while representing my country—a boomerang that will snap their goddamn necks.
The snapping has already begun.
Scorch. Stack. And fucking salt.
Independence Day has a whole new meaning. Well, not to us—the ones who will finally revolt against the oppressive tyranny.
But to the heinous regime, the Fourth of July will be the commemoration of them being crushed in a revolution.
It’s been a hell of a holiday.
And while the national anthem isn’t my choice of theme music—as Rena tagged our wartime playlist—in keeping with that symbol of pride and unity, we’re just about to the rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in air portion of our celebration.
The past twenty-four hours have been full of festivities. Nothing but sentimental togetherness around these parts. I’m damn near weepy with joy.
It took us a day and a half to prep and get our shit together for this—still record time, considering the scale of this ambush and other people involved. The upside was that it landed us smack-dab on the holiday, which rang out as poetic on a monumental level.
Our first destination was about a two-hour flight. We tacked on another hour after that to gather our supplies, drive to the dock, and head out.
Twenty miles off the Eastern Seaboard in a Zodiac inflatable motorboat, we began our Fourth of July celebration. Full steam ahead under the midnight sky.
The briny ocean odor tickled my nostrils, even with my scuba mask in place, water and wind slapping over us with little effect. We wore our diving suits and front-wearing closed-circuit scuba device—the Dr?ger LAR V Rebreather.
That type of breathing gear recycles oxygen, filtering out the carbon dioxide so no bubbles travel to the surface. It allows us to be as invisible as the lethal sharks awaiting unsuspecting prey.
When we were nearly a half mile out from the cargo ship that had disembarked about forty minutes prior, we cut the engine on our motorboat.
The fluidity of our training was apparent. In tasks like that, you can’t single us out because we move as one entity. The rebreathers covered the majority of our front, so we strapped the limpet charges—each about the size of a pie pan in diameter, although thicker and heavier—to our backs and needed to assist each other in removal once we got to the ship.
Fully outfitted, the four of us dove into the moonlit Atlantic. The underwater swim was relatively quick with our handheld propulsion devices and our wrist-mounted GPS to navigate the black ocean. No light. Nothing that could bring attention to us. We split into two teams—one on either side of the ship. Liam was with me.
The whole process was quick and easy—a trip back to our SEALs days. Once we reached the ship, Liam shined a red penlight on the hull—well below the waterline in the location that we determined was most destructive—to be certain there were no issues, such as barnacles in our way. I unfastened the limpet charge from his back and adhered it to the hull. They’re magnetic, so there was nothing to it. The last step was to set the precise time for the detonation before we swam to the other end and repeated in reverse—Liam unstrapping the charge from my back while I checked the surface with the red light.
Stick. Timer. Retreat.
It felt damn good to be out on that water. Been too fucking long.
We swam back to the boat with our propulsion devices, meeting Wells and Ty by twelve thirty in the morning.
Seamless.
That was the only other task that required our presence, aside from our current flight.
Overall, July 4 has been one hell of a show.
At two thirty-nine a.m., the Morelli Meats dry-aging facility experienced a temperature control failure. That is their most profitable legitimate business, one of the country’s largest producers, and how they funnel a good portion of their money and keep the illusion of legal interests. It’s a low-maintenance operation. Other than packaging, shipping, and receiving, few employees are required, as the meat ages for months.
In order for the beef to cure properly, a temperature of approximately thirty-four degrees must be maintained constantly. With the temperature-breach alarm on the fritz and the heat kicked up—all done with Liam’s lightning-fast fingers—they’re enduring temps well into the nineties, worsened by the blazing summer sun. The beef is already roasted, but it may take a day or two for the spoils to be found due to the long weekend shutdown.
At three twenty-nine a.m., the cargo ship that we’d visited, carrying about seven hundred cars—stolen vehicles and parts—en route to Europe, suffered blasts straight through the multilayer hull. The damage was extensive enough to begin sinking the vessel immediately. The Coast Guard managed to rescue all ship personnel—Vittori foot soldiers—but the boat and its cargo were destroyed. Roughly a fifty-million-dollar loss.
At nine twenty-three a.m., the FBI, led by Agent Matthew Colehorn, raided a contraband warehouse based on an anonymous tip. While the owners of said stolen goods are unidentified at this time, it is estimated that twenty-two million dollars of guns, weapons, and drugs were confiscated. The entire operation is shut down, and the FBI will be investigating further. They are hopeful that the evidence will point them toward a nearby human trafficking ring they’ve been working to uncover.
It’s now nine thirty p.m., and we’re three miles out from the shell corporation for Morelli-Vittori headquarters—Transatlantic Realty.
There is a lot that could be said about Fulvio Morelli. He was ruthless, coldhearted, and soulless. Nothing was as important to him as power and his bloodstained family legacy. But no one can claim that he wasn’t brilliant. That is most apparent from his money laundering schemes.
While Morelli Meats served as the most notable place they could wash their black-market income, it wasn’t enough. The direct association proposed limitations. That business has certainly been under the watchful eye of the Feds for decades. Not that they could ever uncover anything. Again, brilliant.
But the international real-estate business that the two families started under a false name—a venture in the works back in my foot soldier days—has grown to become a thriving beast, allowing them to clean their funds all over the world. Between their use of foreign banks, their property sales, and their money crossing borders, the Feds have never been able to track the dirty side of Morelli-Vittori dimes. This also afforded both families contacts, clout, and control in various locations worldwide. No doubt, a step toward the domination that Fulvio craved.
While his power was a far cry from KORT control, for a Mafia family, he made significant strides. That’s also why Ainsley marrying Nick was so important to him. Marriage was a peace treaty between Italian families—the connected ones especially. You don’t start war with family. And with Nick as his son-in-law, Fulvio was another step closer to the power he sought because the Vittoris were in his corner. Anything they held, he could claim rights to as well. All in the name of peace, of course.
As far as Fulvio Morelli’s interest in the Cabrinis, Wells and I didn’t sort that out beyond assuming it was about controlling another Mafia territory until Tom—Ivy’s father—filled us in on the deeper endeavors of Wells’s grandfather. That’s when everything clicked. It’s also when we realized we had the keys to the Morelli kingdom—or the matches to burn it to the ground, if we were patient enough to wait it out. Fulvio wanted that backdoor entrance for KORT. And we stole it.
Little did he know that was the least of his worries. Forsaking me to gain his foothold was the move that set his legacy aflame.
Literally.
“Almost go time, motherfuckers,” Liam howls with a beaming grin, plopping down beside me to be my backup shooter. He’s always the resident enthusiast in our battles, especially the ones that have less up-close-and-personal stakes.
“Let’s do this,” Ty bellows from his pilot seat. He mastered that skill shortly after we were erased, when the four of us became our own unit, unsure of who else we could trust and intent on being capable of fulfilling any role ourselves.
But it’s the Chief who knows how to pump me up the most. About fifty seconds before go time, he grips my shoulder. “A quick reminder of what we’re fighting for from the Little Storm.”
As Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” seizes the playlist, he flashes his phone screen toward me with a picture of our five girls—Ainsley and Rena, bracketed by Ivy, cradling Felicity, and Celeste on the other side, snapping the shot. All of them are smiling and clutching cocktails. And while there is still an undeniable hint of hollowness in Ainsley’s eyes, it’s merely a whisper. Fading. She doesn’t know what we’re doing, only that we had a job. So, the loneliness depleting is a product of the girls embracing her. A simple picture to emphasize that although I failed her in catastrophic ways, this family mends crater-sized wounds.
I flick my eyes to his with a nod of appreciation. “Thanks, Wells.”
“It’s been a long, fucked-up road to get here,” he says. “But the assholes are finally about to burn in Hell.”
He jerks his chin to the six-story Transatlantic Realty building nearly before us—already verified to be completely empty of any people. It sits secluded, on the outskirts of town, surrounded by concrete—a massive parking lot and private street. A symbol of the untouchable power they believe they hold.
“We’re gonna make them piss their pants first.” I grin and raise my M32A1 grenade launcher, waiting for the countdown.
It’s filled with six incendiary white phosphorus rounds—also known as Willie Petes—one for each floor of the building we’re vaporizing. Wells is unaware of the specific type of grenade I’ve selected, but I’m sure we’ll get to it.
While the guys are here to assist and support, this is my goddamn retribution party.
“Ten seconds,” Ty announces into the comm as he lowers us into position, hovering across the street from the target.
As those seconds tick by, I get lost in the music, the whir of the flight, the camaraderie of the men always at my side. The thump of my pulse. The vindication coursing through my veins.
And at nine thirty-two, I tap into what Wicked started.
Fire. Floor six.
“That’s for fucking with my girl!” I shout over the roar.
Blast. Floor five.
“For keeping us apart!”
Shoot. Floor four.
“For coming for Wells!” I add that with a wink to the Chief because he’s currently cussing about the Willie Petes.
The bright yellow flames with white smoke, burning at about fifteen hundred degrees, are unmistakable. And a war crime to use anywhere near civilians. None are here, but still … we’ll work around the crime issue.
Fire. Floor three.
“For touching what’s mine!”
Blast. Floor two.
“For fucking raping her!” That one gets caught in my throat with the rage I have not even begun to express.
Shoot. Floor one.
“For existing, motherfuckers! Your time is almost up.”
Scorch. Stack. Salt.
The blaze trumps any holiday fireworks in a hundred-mile radius.
Liam hoots a celebratory whoop as Ty quickly steers us back to the private airfield between here and home. For the rest of the chopper ride, we’ll fly nap-of-the-earth, following waterways and staying at a low altitude to avoid being picked up by radar, like we did on the way here.
“Willie Petes?” Wells hisses at me, diving a hand into his windblown hair. “Goddammit. That’s one step over the line.”
Tossing my weapon aside, I meet his gaze. “I think they’ll get the message, Chief. We won’t be responding to their harassment with any type of humanity. And I waited a fucking eon to cross that damn line.” I pull my flask from my pocket and lift it in a toast. “Besides, courtesy of this great country, we don’t exist, so we were never fucking here.”
Liam cackles, which garners a, “Shut your suck, Graves,” from Wells and a roar of laughter from Ty.
And that’s how I know it’s the end of that conversation. In the he’s-going-to-bust-my-balls sense. I’m sure it will come up with KORT. But I’ll answer for that.
There is one last element I add to be certain the Morellis and Vittoris know, without a shadow of a doubt, that messing with Ainsley was a deadly mistake. There is a massive electronic billboard at the edge of town that advertises the area’s important events, so in keeping with tradition, I have Liam upload ours, glowing big and bold and red.
Aside from the hotter-than-hell grenade, this attack might at first glance seem far more civil than my traditional methods. No one was harmed in this Independence Day insurgence.
A nightmare, but no massacre. No bloodshed.
By design.
Because I like my kills to fit the crime. It’s something I revel in. Not everyone grasps that perspective. In the SEALs, we were taught to kill or be killed. If you charge into battle and the person has a gun pointed in your direction, you don’t ask them if they’re a good person with good intentions. In that scenario, they are never a friendly. Always a foe. You shoot to kill. End of story. It’s a necessary evil of war. Lines blur in combat, in survival mode.
It’s also quick and uniform. No special treatment. The true monsters don’t get anything worse than the poor schmuck aiming his gun.
An enemy is an enemy.
I much prefer the art form of assessing the transgression and molding a punishment to it. A custom fit, if you will.
Like a torture tailor.
Patience. Ingenuity. Attention to fucking detail.
So, this? Just the beginning.
My girl has been surviving for far too long. Scared to breathe, fearing what they’d do to her next, trapped by things outside of her control. Waiting for the chance to run. I don’t need the nitty-gritty details to see she endured unfathomable suffering. Daily. Fucking. Rape spelled it out plenty, even if she never shares anything else.
A torment that lasted years.
I’m not suggesting this plan will take years. Far from it. But the beauty in step-by-step decimation, starting with their funds, is that I leave them in terror. Like an island about to endure a Category 5 hurricane. Nothing to do but wait and fret and pray.
They’ll know they’re going to die. But by the time death comes for them, they’ll be begging for it.
And I’ll take my fucking time.