Chapter 2 - THE HUNTER BECOMES THE SHIELD
The thunderous roar of buckshot ripped through the corridor, pulverizing the marble pillars into a blinding storm of white dust and jagged shrapnel. I twisted my torso mid-slide, shielding the baby with my Kevlar-lined suit jacket. The deafening blast shattered the wall sconces, plunging the entire fourteenth-floor corridor into strobing red emergency lighting.
The infant buried her small hands into my lapel, trembling but remarkably quiet, as if some primal instinct warned her that crying meant instant death.
Through the haze of drywall and cordite, the shooter surged forward to cycle another shell into the chamber. But I had fought through the bloodbaths of Milan and Chicago; you do not give Alessandro Duca a second of hesitation.
I raised my Glock, acquired the shooter’s silhouette in the infrared glare of the emergency lights, and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid, rhythmic cadence.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The silenced rounds found their marks with surgical brutality: right shoulder, left clavicle, and the exposed flesh just above the Kevlar collar. The hitman let out a gurgling shriek, dropped the shotgun, and crashed backward into the decorative glass paneling by the elevator bank. Glass rained down like diamond shards.
Before the echoes faded, the utility closet door creaked open. A young woman fell out onto her hands and knees, trailing a crimson smear across the pristine floor.
Her face was swollen, marked by severe contusions and dried blood, but her striking green eyes burned with an animalistic terror. Her knuckles were split, and she held a broken ceramic vase as a weapon, prepared to fight to the last breath.
"Mia... give me back my baby!" she wheezed, her voice cracked with despair.
I stood slowly, tucking my weapon into its leather holster while keeping my arm locked securely around the tiny bundle against my ribs. "Who the hell are you, and how did you breach my private floor?" I demanded, my tone dropping to an icy, vibrating baritone.
The woman looked up, her gaze shifting from the dead assassin to the infant in my arms, and then up to my face. A sharp, trembling gasp escaped her bruised lips. "Alessandro... you don't recognize her? She’s your niece. She is Matteo’s daughter."
The name hit me like a bullet straight through the sternum. Matteo. My younger brother. The only person in my entire bloodline I had ever loved—murdered six months ago in what the police called an accidental car bombing in New Jersey.
"Matteo didn't have a child," I rasped, stepping closer, my cold demeanor cracking for the first time in ten years.
"He hid us to keep us alive!" she cried, coughing up blood as she struggled to stand. "His own partners betrayed him. And tonight... your second-in-command sold you out to the Zurich syndicate. They aren't transferring forty million dollars to your account, Alessandro. They're using the data link to wipe your biometric security and unlock this building for a full execution squad!"
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As if on cue, the primary elevator chime rang out with a mocking cheerful tone, indicating three elevator cars descending simultaneously to the fourteenth floor, packed with enemy commandos.
***
