Chapter 6 - The Breach
Inside the bistro, the music stuttered.
A prominent food critic was mid-sentence when the heavy oak front doors exploded inward, splintering into a million jagged pieces of wood and brass hardware.
Screams erupted instantly. Wine glasses shattered, plates crashed to the floor, and panic swept through the crowded dining room like a tidal wave of ice. Patrons scrambled under tables, crying out in terror as three masked gunmen poured into the room, their weapons raised, while a fourth poured gasoline along the baseboards near the entryway.
“Nobody moves!” the lead gunman roared, racking the bolt of his rifle. “This is a message from the Moretti family! Burn the place down!”
Mara froze, horror gripping her heart as she pulled Rory behind her skirts, shielding her small body with her own. “Rory, stay down, don't look!”
The gunman with the gasoline canister laughed, striking a heavy-duty lighter and dropping it toward the pool of fuel near the front door. Flames ignited with a violent, roaring whoosh, eating up the hallway and cutting off the primary exit.
“Burn it!” the leader screamed.
Before the flames could spread another foot, the heavy shadow near the back ficus tree detached itself from the wall.
“You’re burning the wrong building, gentlemen,” a cold, smooth voice cut through the roaring fire and terrified screams.
The four gunmen spun around, raising their weapons toward the rear of the room.
Vincent Kane stepped forward into the amber light, his overcoat falling open to reveal the tailored suit beneath. In his right hand, held with absolute, terrifying calm, was his firearm, already leveled at the lead gunman’s chest.
“Vincent Kane,” the lead gunman hissed, his voice trembling beneath his ski mask. “You’re dead meat—we outnumber you—!”
Bang.
Vincent didn't hesitate. A single, perfectly placed shot shattered the kneecap of the gunman on the right, dropping him instantly with a shriek of agony.
Before the remaining three could squeeze their triggers, the side kitchen doors flew open.
Julian Vance and half a dozen elite private security operatives—armed, armored, and battle-tested—poured out of the service corridors, flanking Vincent in a flawless tactical formation.
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“Drop your weapons or join your friend on the floor,” Vincent commanded, his voice echoing over the crackling flames.
The gunmen looked at the burning doorway, looked at the heavily armed security detail, and dropped their rifles to the parquet floor with metallic clatters, raising their hands trembling into the air.
