Chapter 2 - The Bleeding Foundation
The service stairwell of Blackwood Heights was a vertical labyrinth of rust, concrete, and shadows.
Tristan moved up the steps like a predator returning to a den that had been violated. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, his breathing shallow and steady. The flash drive was safely tucked inside his tactical vest pocket.
At the fourth-floor landing, two men stood smoking near an unglazed window frame, their silhouettes cutting sharply against the gray rainy night outside.
“You think Callahan is right?” one of them muttered, flicking ash into the dark void below. “Doyle says once we clip Vail, we split the Queens docks three ways. We’ll be living like kings.”
“Yeah, well, Vail’s got nine lives,” the second guard grunted. “The boss has been planning this coup since—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Tristan cleared the final step in absolute silence. He slammed his left hand over the second guard’s mouth, dragging him backward into the stairwell wall while his right hand brought the butt of his Glock down hard against the first guard’s temple.
Both men dropped like felled timber before they could even draw their iron.
Tristan didn't pause to check their pulses. He stripped a radio off the unconscious guard’s belt, clipped it to his collar, and kept climbing toward the seventh floor.
On the seventh floor, the heavy oak door to the penthouse suite stood slightly ajar. A thin strip of yellow light cut across the rotting hallway carpet.
Inside, Reece Callahan’s voice was carrying clearly through the crack.
“...I don't care if you have to tear the walls down brick by brick!” Callahan snapped into a satellite phone. “Doyle wants confirmation before he lands his chopper on the roof. Find out where Bennett hid those files!”
Tristan raised his foot and kicked the door inward with a deafening crash.
The heavy wood splintered off its hinges, slamming against the interior wall.
Callahan whipped around, his hand flying to his holster, his face pale with sudden, unadulterated terror. Two other armed enforcers scrambled from the kitchen area, raising their submachine guns.
They were half a second too slow.
Tristan fired twice—clean, disciplined, center mass. Both enforcers hit the floor before their barrels could level at him.
Reece Callahan froze, his hands hovering inches from his gun, his mouth working silently like a fish out of water.
“V-Vail,” Callahan stammered, backing up until his spine hit the glassless window frame overlooking the rainy New York skyline. “Wait. Listen to me. Marcus set this up! I was just following orders—it was always Doyle pulling the strings!”
Tristan walked forward, his boots crunching on broken drywall. He didn't holster his weapon. The barrel of the Glock stayed locked squarely between Callahan’s eyes.
“I know,” Tristan said softly. “My cousin Marcus has a very long memory.”
Callahan swallowed hard, sweat pouring down his forehead. “He’s on his way here right now, Vail! He wanted to watch you die himself! If you kill me, you’ll never get out of the city alive!”
“Who said anything about leaving?” Tristan asked.
He raised the pistol, pistol-whipped Callahan across the jaw with a sickening crack, and caught the falling man by his collar, dragging him toward the center of the room.
He keyed the radio clipped to his collar.
“Marcus,” Tristan spoke into the frequency, his voice cutting through the static like a razor.
A pause on the other end, followed by Marcus Doyle’s smooth, familiar voice.
“Tristan? Thank God. Did you find the informant? Are you safe?”
“I found him, Marcus,” Tristan replied, looking down at the bloody, whimpering Reece Callahan. “And I found something else. The audit files are very interesting reading. Especially the pages detailing how you liquidated my father’s accounts five years ago.”
The radio went dead silent.
For ten seconds, there was only the sound of rain lashing against the broken windows.
When Marcus Doyle spoke again, the mask of the loving cousin and loyal advisor was entirely gone. His voice was cold, flat, and dripping with venom.
“You should have stayed in Long Island, Tristan. It would have been a lot less messy.”
“I’m in the seventh-floor apartment at Blackwood Heights,” Tristan said, cocking his gun again. “I’ll give you ten minutes to get down here. If you’re not here, I start dismantling your operation from the top down. Starting with your favorite captain.”
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“I’m already in the elevator,” Marcus replied coldly. “And I’m bringing twenty men. Don’t go anywhere.”
The line clicked dead.
