Chapter 9 - The Convoy Moves Out Into The Torrential Rain
Three black SUVs tore down the winding gravel driveway of the estate, their headlights cutting through the thick pine forest.
Vincent sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, holding the cracked blue phone tightly in his calloused hand.
The audio loop replayed endlessly in his mind: Vince, if Bellamy is in the room, don’t say another word.
It was her voice. Unmistakable. Unbroken by time, even if it sounded weakened by starvation and fear.
“We’re approaching the old carriage house foundations, boss,” the driver reported over the secure radio frequency.
“Kill the headlights and cut the engines,” Vincent ordered quietly, stepping out into the knee-deep mud and pouring rain.
The ruins of the carriage house sat like a skeletal monument against the dark, stormy sky above the Hudson River cliffs.
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Twelve armed enforcers fanned out silently around the perimeter, their tactical flashlights cutting beams through the dripping foliage.
Vincent checked his magazine, his heart hammering against his ribs with a force he hadn't felt in twenty years of underworld warfare.
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