Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs
The dry, mechanical rack of the shotgun upstairs served as the final punctuation mark to Salvatore’s ultimatum.
“Last chance, Marcus,” Salvatore’s voice cut through the wind outside, dripping with pure malice. “Tell your men to drop their rifles, or I start taking limbs off one by one.”
Inside the root cellar, Vincent looked down at the weapon Elena pushed toward him. His right hand wrapped around the worn wooden grip, his thumb instinctively finding the safety switch. The familiar weight of the steel sent a sudden surge of adrenaline through his veins, burning away the lingering fog of blood loss and shock. He wasn't just a hunted target anymore. He was Vincent Torino, and the wolves had wandered into his den.
“When I kick this trapdoor open,” Vincent whispered, his eyes locked onto Elena’s, “throw your weight to the left. Salvatore’s men are positioned by the front windows. They won't expect an exit from beneath the floor.”
“And Marcus?” Elena asked, her finger resting lightly against the trigger guard of her own weapon.
“Marcus is mine.”
Without waiting for another word, Vincent drove his boot upward against the underside of the heavy wooden trapdoor. The rusted latch snapped with a sharp report like a pistol shot, and the door flew backward, splintering against the kitchen floorboards.
Sunlight and bitter mountain air rushed into the dark cellar.
Vincent vaulted upward through the opening in a single, fluid motion, ignoring the white-hot agony tearing through his shoulder as he hit the kitchen floor on one knee, the Remington leveled instantly toward the front door.
Outside, the shouting stopped dead.
Through the shattered front window, Vincent saw Salvatore whip his head around, his eyes going wide with absolute terror as he stared directly through the cabin frame into the barrel of Vincent’s gun.
“Surprise, Sal,” Vincent whispered into the cold mountain air.
Before Salvatore could pull his trigger, a high-velocity crack echoed from the upper ridge behind the trees—a sniper’s shot that blew the Remington right out of Salvatore’s hands in a shower of splintered wood and flying metal.
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Vincent’s head whipped toward the ridge. Standing on the snowy outcrop three hundred yards above them, half-concealed by pine branches, was a fourth figure holding a long-range suppressed rifle—and through the scope’s glare, Vincent recognized the distinct tactical patch of the Boston syndicate’s elite hit squad.
They weren't just fighting Salvatore and Marcus anymore. The entire board had converged on the cabin, and the trap had just snapped shut on all of them.
