Chapter 10
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire inside the confined ventilation shaft was overwhelming. Hot lead punched through the metal walls inches from Lorenzo’s head, showering him in sparks and jagged shards of steel. He pushed Elena further down the horizontal tube, shielding her body with his own as they scrambled backward away from the vertical drop point.
"Keep moving!" Lorenzo yelled over the continuous concussive blasts echoing from the room below.
They scrambled out of the primary ductwork, tumbling roughly onto the carpeted floor of a secondary guest suite that connected to the master wing. The door to the suite was locked from the inside, providing a momentary barrier against immediate pursuit. Lorenzo scrambled to his feet, sweeping the room with his eyes for anything useful. The suite was lavishly decorated, featuring heavy oak furniture and a private en-suite bathroom.
Elena pulled herself up, her velvet dress torn at the hem, her dark hair coming completely undone from its updo to cascade wildly over her shoulders. Despite the disheveled appearance, her eyes were sharp, devoid of panic.
"They know exactly where we are," Elena said, her voice steady. "They’re going to blow the doors off this room in seconds."
"Not if we don't give them the chance," Lorenzo replied, grabbing a heavy mahogany dresser and dragging it across the floor to barricade the heavy double doors.
He moved to the private bathroom, turning on the faucet in the large marble soaking tub and plugging the drain. If Victor’s men used explosives to breach the door, the resulting fire could easily engulf the suite. Water was their best defense against incendiary charges. He grabbed several thick bath towels, soaking them thoroughly and jamming them beneath the cracks of the bedroom door to block smoke and toxic fumes.
Outside in the hallway, heavy thuds echoed against the mahogany panels—the unmistakable sound of a battering ram or a breaching charge being set into position.
"Lorenzo," Elena called out softly from near the bed. She was holding something she had pulled from the nightstand drawer—an old satellite phone, completely encrypted and independent of the building’s compromised local network. "The panic button. Marcus mentioned it once when he stayed here. It connects directly to the regional maritime authority. They track all high-value port arrivals."
Lorenzo rushed to her side, grabbing the satellite phone from her hands. He punched in the emergency override code he hadn't used in five years—the code reserved for a total syndicate collapse. The device beeped once, twice, and then connected with a crisp, digital tone.
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"This is Federal Maritime Task Force," a stern, automated voice responded over the secure line. "State your emergency and identification code."
"This is Lorenzo Vance," he spoke rapidly and clearly into the receiver. "Authorization code Delta-Nine-Victor. Hostile takeover at my private residence, downtown coordinates. A rogue security detail has compromised my family and is attempting to seize control of the south-side shipping lanes tonight. I require immediate extraction and tactical enforcement."
