Chapter 5 - The Chase in the Snow
The January blizzard had turned into a full-scale whiteout by four-thirty in the morning.
The black Mercedes SUV tore through the unplowed gates of the Moretti estate, its four-wheel drive kicking up heavy sheets of slush and powder as Vincent slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
I sat in the passenger seat, gripping the dashboard with both hands. I hadn't planned on coming. When Vincent headed for the garage, I had tried to slip back toward the staff quarters to check on Emily, but Vincent had simply opened the SUV door and looked at me with those dark, unyielding eyes.
“Get in, Clara. This ends tonight.”
The drive to the private airfield in Dupage County took twenty-eight minutes of terrifying, high-speed navigation through blinding sheets of snow and ice on deserted interstate highways. Vincent drove with the cold, calculated precision of a man who had spent a lifetime dodging rival syndicates and federal surveillance.
As we pulled through the security perimeter of the private airfield, the gates were already smashed open, the automated arm lying shattered in the snow.
A sleek twin-engine private jet sat idling on the tarmac, its turbine engines screaming against the howling wind, its navigation lights blinking red and white through the swirling blizzard.
“Stay in the car,” Vincent ordered, killing the engine.
Before I could protest, Vincent pushed his door open and stepped out into the freezing vortex of wind and snow, his black overcoat billowing around him.
I didn't listen. I scrambled across the center console, pushed my door open, and followed him onto the tarmac, the bitter wind instantly freezing the tears on my cheeks.
Up ahead, near the boarding stairs of the jet, a figure in a heavy wool overcoat was scrambling frantically up the aluminum steps, carrying a heavy leather briefcase.
It was Dominic.
“Dominic!” Vincent’s voice cut through the roar of the jet engines, carrying an unnatural, terrifying resonance that made the cousin freeze midway up the stairs.
Dominic slowly turned around, his glasses fogged from the cold, his face twisted in desperate panic. In his right hand, he clutched a heavy Smith & Wesson revolver, pointing it shakily in Vincent’s direction.
“Stay back, Vince!” Dominic screamed over the whine of the turbines, his voice cracking with hysteria. “Don't come any closer! I’m getting on this plane, and you’re never going to see me again!”
Vincent didn't stop walking. He kept moving forward through the driving snow, his hands completely empty, his dark overcoat snapping in the gale.
“You cut her brakes, Dominic,” Vincent said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the tarmac. “You killed my wife, and then you sat at my table every Sunday for three years eating dinner with me.”
“She was going to ruin everything!” Dominic shrieked, his finger tightening convulsively on the trigger of the revolver. “She was going to hand the Feds every ledger, every shipping manifest, every offshore account! We would have spent the rest of our lives in a federal penitentiary! I had to do it!”
“Drop the gun, Dominic,” Vincent said calmly, stepping closer.
“I’ll shoot you!” Dominic yelled, tears of panic freezing on his cheeks. “I swear to God, Vince, I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes!”
Vincent took one final, decisive step forward—and then moved with a speed that defied belief.
Before Dominic could pull the trigger, Vincent lunged upward like a striking animal, his massive hand clamping down around the barrel of the revolver and shoving it violently upward just as the gun went off.
Bang.
The bullet tore harmlessly into the gray sky above the jet.
With a sickening crunch of bone, Vincent wrenched the weapon out of Dominic’s grip, tossing it aside into the deep snowbank. Then, grabbing his cousin by the lapels of his coat, Vincent hauled him down the metal steps, slamming Dominic hard against the side of the tarmac barrier.
Dominic slid down into the slush, gasping for breath, clutching his broken wrist.
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Vincent stood over him, breathing heavily, the snow melting on his dark hair and running down the sharp angles of his face. But he didn't strike him again. He simply reached down, grabbed the leather briefcase containing the stolen flash drives out of the snow, and tossed it to the ground at my feet.
“Call the federal task force downtown,” Vincent said, looking back at me through the swirling whiteout. “Tell them the Moretti files are recovered. And tell them Charles Bellamy is waiting in the holding cell to give them every name on the list.”
