Chapter 8 - THE WIDOW'S WEBIn the high-security holding precinct of the Boston Police Department’s 4th District, Captain Thomas Callahan sat at his metal desk, staring at a burner phone that refused to stop vibrating. Callahan was a veteran cop with twenty-five years on the force and a twenty-thousand-dollar monthly retainer wired directly from a shell company in Panama controlled by Vivien’s syndicate handlers.
The phone buzzed again. Third missed call from Vivien’s emergency relay.
Callahan swore under his breath, reaching for his service revolver and sliding it into his holster. If Vivien had been compromised, the Duca family would already have the wiretaps rolling on every precinct computer in the state. He stood up, grabbed his leather jacket, and headed for the parking garage.
As he pushed open the heavy fire door to the subterranean garage, his footsteps echoed off the concrete walls. "Hello?" he called out, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. "Who’s there?"
From the shadows behind a concrete pillar, a tall, impeccably tailored figure stepped into the dim sodium-vapor light. It wasn't Lorenzo. It was Marcus Sterling, holding a silenced submachine gun resting casually against his hip.
"Captain Callahan," Marcus said smoothly, his smile cold and razor-sharp. "Going somewhere?"
Callahan drew his weapon in a fraction of a second, aiming straight for Marcus’s chest. "Drop the gun, Sterling! That’s an order from the badge!"
Marcus didn't flinch. Instead, he raised his left hand and pressed a button on a small handheld remote. Across the garage, the overhead garage doors slammed shut with a heavy, deafening metallic boom, sealing them inside a concrete tomb.
From behind Callahan, three more Duca enforcers stepped out of the darkness, their weapons leveled at the captain’s spine.
May you like
"The badge doesn't jurisdiction here, Thomas," Marcus said, stepping closer as the barrel of Callahan’s gun began to shake. "Especially not when your bank statements are currently being projected onto the wall of the Duca family boardroom. Drop the iron."
Callahan’s fingers went limp. The heavy Glock hit the concrete with a dull clatter.
Related Stories
