Chapter 8 - Fire in the Foundation
The floor beneath Thorne’s mercenaries heaved upward with a deafening, subterranean roar that shook the very bedrock of Long Island.
Charges planted strategically along the structural support columns of the grand foyer’s sub-basement detonated in rapid, cascading sequence. The marble floor buckled, splitting open in jagged white fault lines as thick clouds of grey smoke and orange flame erupted from the depths below.
The mercenaries scattered, shouting curses as debris rained down from the vaulted ceiling. One operative vanished into a sudden crack in the floor as the marble gave way beneath his boots.
Thorne staggered backward, losing his silver-headed cane as he tripped over a shattered Corinthian pillar. "You insane bastard! You're blowing up your own home!"
"It was just a house, Victor," Dominic said, stepping through the billowing smoke like a ghost untouched by the chaos. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, grabbed Thorne by the lapels of his expensive Brioni coat, and hauled the older man to his feet with terrifying strength.
"Where is the original ledger?" Dominic demanded, pressing the muzzle of his Sig Sauer directly under Thorne’s chin. "The one with the names of every judge, politician, and commissioner who signed off on Isabelle’s murder?"
Thorne gasped, his hands clawing uselessly at Dominic’s wrists. His face had gone chalk-white, the aristocratic veneer completely shattered. "It’s... it’s in the wall safe at the Manhattan club. The downtown lounge on Mott Street. But you'll never reach it—the Commission has already locked down—"
A sharp, high-pitched whistle cut through the roar of the collapsing foyer.
Whiz-bang.
A tactical smoke grenade came crashing through the remaining upper-floor window, landing squarely between Dominic and Thorne. Before Dominic could react, a dense cloud of blinding white phosphorus billowed outward, filling the room with a chemical fog that burned the eyes and lungs.
"Boss! Get down!"
A heavy hand grabbed Dominic’s shoulder from behind, yanking him backward into the recessed shadow of the grand staircase just as a concentrated burst of suppressive fire chewed through the exact spot where he had been standing.
When the smoke cleared enough to see through the haze, Thorne was gone—dragged away by the surviving mercenaries through the shattered remains of the front security gates.
Dominic coughed, wiping soot from his face, and turned to look at the man who had pulled him out of the line of fire.
It wasn't one of his guards.
It was a man in a rumpled gray trench coat, holding a scarred Remington shotgun and wearing a badge pinned to his belt that didn't belong to the NYPD or the FBI.
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"Agent Miller didn't tell you the whole truth, Romano," the man said, spitting a bit of dust onto the ruined marble floor. "The FBI isn't the only federal agency interested in Victor Thorne’s little syndicate."
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