Chapter 6 - Blood on the Snow
By 2:30 AM, the rain had turned into a wet, blinding snow as they climbed the winding mountain roads into the Berkshire foothills.
The estate at Pinehurst was hidden deep within an old-growth pine forest, completely invisible from the main road. High stone walls topped with razor wire surrounded the perimeter, and two armed guards stood beneath a timber-framed guardhouse at the wrought-iron gate.
Lorenzo’s SUV didn't slow down.
"Hold on!" Marco shouted.
The heavy steel brush guard of the armored truck smashed through the iron gates with a deafening screech of tearing metal. The guardhouse erupted in gunfire, but Lorenzo and his team were already out of the vehicles.
Lorenzo moved like a ghost through the falling snow. Every movement was fluid, lethal, honed by a lifetime of war. A guard lunged from the shadows with an assault rifle; Lorenzo stepped inside the man’s guard, trapped the rifle barrel, and drove his combat blade directly beneath the man’s ribcage. The guard collapsed into the red-stained snow without a sound.
"Perimeter clear," Marco signaled, breathing heavily, his weapon raised.
The main cabin was a sprawling, modern lodge built of cedar and glass. Warm light spilled from only one window on the second floor.
Lorenzo stared up at that warm light. His heart hammered violently against his ribs—a feeling foreign to a man who had felt dead inside for nearly a year. Was she really up there? Or was this Callahan’s final cruel trap?
He kicked the heavy front door open.
Inside, the living room was silent, the smell of cedar wood and burning pine in the air. Standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase was a middle-aged woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, her hands raised, trembling from head to toe. Behind her stood two private security contractors, their hands hovering over their holstered sidearms.
"Don't move," Lorenzo said. His voice was not loud, but it possessed a terrifying gravity that made both guards freeze instantly. "Unbuckle your holsters with two fingers. Drop them. Or die where you stand."
The men looked at Lorenzo’s blood-spattered tactical gear, looked into the dead, unblinking eyes of the Don of New York, and slowly, very carefully, unclipped their holsters and let their weapons clatter to the hardwood floor.
"Upstairs," the nurse wept, pointing toward the ceiling. "She’s upstairs in the nursery. Please... don't hurt me. I was just hired to care for her. I didn't know who she was until last week!"
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Lorenzo didn’t answer. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, his boots heavy on the wood, his soul screaming.
***
