Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
Dominic tackled Emily to the marble floor just as the two-ton chandelier smashed into the buffet tables behind them, sending shards of crystal and heavy steel flying like shrapnel.
Emergency sirens blared. Gunfire erupted across the grand ballroom as Volkov’s disguised hitmen engaged Dominic’s security detail. The socialites fled in stampeding waves toward the emergency exits.
Dominic drew twin customized pistols from his holster, firing with lethal accuracy through the billowing smoke. Three Russian mercenaries dropped instantly.
“Stay behind me!” Dominic yelled over the deafening cacophony. He pulled Emily toward the VIP kitchen exit, his weapon clearing every corner.
“Dominic, behind you!” Emily screamed, grabbing a heavy silver champagne cooler and hurling it at an operative flanking them from the service hallway. The impact knocked the gunman off balance, allowing Dominic to neutralize him with a single shot.
They burst out onto the icy concrete loading dock overlooking the freezing waters of Lake Michigan. The blizzard raged furiously, wind-whipped waves crashing against the pier.
A black tactical assault boat idle at the dock revved its twin engines, while an armored van blocked the exit ramp.
From behind the shipping containers stepped Viktor Volkov himself. Tall, gaunt, with pale predatory eyes and a jagged scar running across his throat, the Russian kingpin smiled like a hyena.
“Dominic,” Volkov mocked in a heavy Russian accent, raising a customized assault rifle. “Always so predictable. Sacrificing your entire empire for a pretty face and two little brats.”
Dominic shoved Emily behind a concrete support pillar, stepping out into the open, his weapon leveled at Volkov. “This ends tonight, Viktor. Call off your dogs, or I paint this pier with your blood.”
Volkov laughed. “Look above you, my friend.”
High on the gantry crane, a laser sight locked onto Dominic’s chest.
Emily saw the sniper’s red dot before Dominic did. Without thinking, driven by an instinct older than survival, Emily surged forward and slammed into Dominic, knocking him out of the kill zone just as a high-powered sniper round sparked against the concrete where his head had been.
The sniper’s second shot grazed Dominic’s thigh, forcing him down.
Before Dominic could recover, Volkov’s two hulking enforcers grabbed Emily from behind, pinning her arms and pressing a chloroform rag over her face.
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“No!” Dominic roared, attempting to stand, firing wildly through the snowstorm, but the armored van’s heavy steel door slammed shut.
“If you want your bride back, Dominic,” Volkov’s voice boomed over the van’s loudspeaker as tires screeched toward the highway, “bring the shipping port cryptographic keys to Warehouse 14 at the South Docks. Come alone, or she dies screaming.”
