Chapter 8 Cassian
CASSIAN
“You always keep a second gun strapped to your ankle?” I ask Jet as I speed through the gates of Moore’s property.
“Came in handy, didn’t it?” He holsters his Glock and hands me mine. “You know where he took her?”
“I think so. I hope so. Malcom Hall. They called him the Maestro. He was Sarah Moretti’s piano tutor, and it was his house she died in when a fire broke out during their lessons.
Or so the official story went. It’s got to be it.
If she’s not there…” then I don’t know. I don’t say that part out loud, though.
“She has to be there.” My chest tightens, the road blurring momentarily.
She has to be there.
I feel Jet’s gaze on the side of my head, but I keep my eyes on the road.
“I was right about this being a distraction.”
I nod. It was. It was to waste my time and delayed my finding Allegra.
But how did Malek know we had eyes on Moore’s house? Because I’m sure he did. I’m sure he arranged for the distraction.
I add up all the little things. The betrayals.
Someone tipped off the feds to a shipment of arms with details only very few people have access to.
Someone sent a loaded weapon to my nephew.
A very clear message to me that they can get to what I hold dear.
Someone gave Michael Moretti eight million dollars, so I’d have no right to Allegra.
To do what I’m going to do, to take her back, it could start a war.
That’s if Malek Lombardi has the support of the family. And he might, if I’m too late and he forces her to marry him.
I push the thoughts from my mind. I need to focus on one thing right now. Find Allegra. Get her back. Do it before he hurts her.
Because I can imagine how he’ll hurt her, and I can’t let that happen to her. There’s that twisting again, a choking sensation at the thought of Allegra afraid. Allegra alone and afraid and unable to defend herself.
By the time we drive onto the cul-de-sac where the Maestro’s house once stood, it’s full dark. There are only two other houses on this street.
It’s quiet here, the night completely still.
A stone wall encircles the property and ornate iron gates stand closed at the top of a long drive.
The house is set too far back to see anything from the road.
I slow as I round the cul-de-sac. I’m not sure it’s a good sign or a bad one that I don’t see soldiers.
If I’m wrong about this, if I made a mistake, she’ll pay the price.
Every minute I don’t find her, she’s paying the price.
“Hey, focus,” Jet says, and I turn to face him, seeing in his eyes that he can read everything going on in my head. “We’ll find her.”
I don’t answer, don’t nod. Because there is a part of me that is terrified that I’m wrong.
That we won’t find her. Or it’ll be too late.
I begin mentally bargaining. Let her be alive.
Let her be here. Let her be here and alive and I’ll fix this.
I’ll fix everything for her. I won’t leave her unprotected again.
I won’t set her in harm’s way again. Because that is what I did.
That is what I did when my temper exploded.
I see her face, see how she looked at me that last time. How she swore she’d never forgive me. And now, this.
This horror.
The gates are chained together. If he’s here, he’d have soldiers. If he’s holding Allegra here, he won’t take any chances. He won’t face me alone.
But if I’m wrong, if Allegra isn’t here, I don’t know where she’ll be. I don’t know where he’d take her. And I’ll be too late.
I can’t think about that now. I glance at the SUV’s lined up behind me.
“Hey. Get it fucking together. We’re here. Let’s go,” Jet says.
I nod. He’s right.
“You ready?” I ask Jet.
“We’re not worried about being polite here, I guess.” There’s no humor in his voice. He’s just looking straight ahead, eyes narrowed. Determined.
“We’ll be announcing our arrival in a minute. If his soldiers are armed, they’ll shoot.”
“Then we’d best be ready to shoot back,” he says, checking his weapon.
I hit the gas pedal. The tires scream as we propel forward, up the driveway picking up speed as I floor it.
Jet mutters a curse, gripping the dashboard as I crash through the gates, the heavy iron giving way, the chain breaking apart, crashing against the windshield which splinters where the lock hits then cracks all the way across.
I don’t stop. The SUV bounds along the unkempt path overgrown with weeds, the garden creeping onto the gravel drive.
Alaric Moretti bought the property after the fire that ruined the house. It didn’t completely destroy it, though, and I wonder if that’s why he bought it. He never did anything with it apart from locking it up tight.
No soldiers here. No shots fired. Not yet.
There should be soldiers. “Shit.”
But in the distance, I see something. A blinking of brake lights bright in the black night. Here one moment, gone the next.
“There!” Jet calls out, pointing in the direction I’m looking.
I floor it, the SUV’s following me. Everything is pitch-black out here.
The house is set so far from the road that it’s impossible to see anything until the attack begins.
An onslaught of bullets, a war of them piercing holes in the SUVs, shattering glass all around us as my men split off, breaks screaming, soldiers piling out, weapons in hand.
They make barricades of the SUVs and for all the silence of a few moments ago, now chaos reigns all around us.
Brake lights flash again in the distance.
I let my men battle the soldiers at the house and floor it to catch up with the car that must be driving off the property through a back exit.
I’m too far away, though. I won’t reach them.
And when bullets pierce the tires of my SUV, the vehicle comes to a sudden and abrupt stop.
Jet and I open the doors simultaneously and take cover as we’re shot at from the upstairs windows.
We shoot back, but we’re sitting ducks out here. Although I only see two cars parked around the back of the house. He must have brought only a handful of soldiers with him. Around the raised patio, a door stands open. It’s a back entrance into the house and it’s my way in.
“Jet!” I call out over the chaos.
He takes aim at one of the upstairs windows and a moment later, a soldier drops from it to the ground.
He turns back to me, a half-grin on his face. “What?” he calls, swapping out his magazine.
I point to the door. “Cover me.”
He nods once, turns back and begins to fire against the upstairs windows.
I crouch, hurrying across the garden, grateful that it’s overgrown as I narrowly dodge bullets.
My luck runs out when I get to a few feet from that open door.
I take a shot to my shoulder. It jerks me backward, my shoulder and upper arm on fire.
I’ve been shot before, and I know the fiery pain to come. This is only the beginning.
I drop behind a tree, take aim around the back of the house where the shot came from, but whoever shot me is either gone or hidden so I decide to go for it.
Using the last of my bullets, I shoot a continuous streak and run toward that door, not sure what I’ll find on the other side, but unwilling to stop because if she’s here, I have to get to her and if she’s not, I need one man to tell me where he’s taking her. Just one.
By the time I get inside, my bullets have run out, but I hold the Glock at my side as my eyes adjust. My shoulder is throbbing, but the rush of adrenaline is keeping the pain at bay.
Inside is almost as dark as outside, but someone dropped a flashlight not too far away because I see the boots of a fallen soldier.
I hurry toward the dead man, look at his still open eyes and swap his weapon for mine.
It’s an AK-47. I pick up the flashlight and creep deeper into the house.
The only light apart from my flashlight is coming from the broken-out windows, the part of the roof that’s open.
It’s an old stone mansion so it’s held up reasonably well.
It’s why the fire didn’t devour it, although mother nature is swallowing it back up.
Outside gunfire is still going strong. I ascend the stairs and know I’m nearing whatever soldiers were shooting at Jet and so I switch off the flashlight and turn the corner, gun ready.
Two men stand at the windows, their backs to me.
One is reloading his weapon and over the noise of bullets they don’t hear me come.
Once I’m a few feet away, I switch on the flashlight and both men turn, surprise on their faces.
I never did believe in shooting a man in the back, not even men like this.
The moment they turn to me, I open fire, bullets raining down on them.
I watch their bodies reverberate with them, arms flailing, weapons flying as they go down.
The sound of bullets has lessened, but in a distant part of the house they’re still fighting. I look around the room, see the ruined furniture. I notice the ashtray on top of the piano, see the partially smoked cigar in it. That’s recent.
I remember the residue of cigars smoked in Alaric Moretti’s office.
I recall the scars on the back of Allegra’s neck.
Malek was here. He brought her here. And maybe he left her behind when he ran like the coward he is.