Chapter 4 - Blood on the Floor
"Boss!"
Leon Mercer’s voice echoed down the concrete stairwell, followed by the rapid, heavy clatter of boots hitting the floor. Leon burst into the halogen light circle, his face pale, blood staining the shoulder of his gray trench coat.
Silas straightened instantly, the vulnerability vanishing from his eyes, replaced by the cold, lethal stillness of an apex predator.
"Talk, Leon," Silas commanded, stepping between Eliza and the stairs.
"The Moretti crew," Leon panted, pulling a heavy-duty SIG Sauer from his holster and checking the slide. "They hit the North Side warehouse twenty minutes ago. They know about the A19 manifest. Someone inside the city treasurer's office leaked our logistics routing. They're coming here."
Eliza’s blood ran cold. The A19 manifest. She had photographed it, but she hadn't sent it anywhere yet. If the Moretti family knew about it, it meant there was a second copy—and someone high up in Silas's own organization was selling him out to start a war.
"How many?" Silas asked, his voice dead flat.
"At least a dozen. Armed. They bypassed the security gates through the alley." Leon glanced at Eliza, his eyes hard with suspicion. "And they're looking for the girl. They know she pulled the record from the dining room."
Silas didn't hesitate. He turned back to Eliza, his hands gripping her shoulders with an intensity that left no room for argument.
"Listen to me very carefully," Silas said, his eyes burning into hers. "Take the laptop. Take the micro-SD card with every file you've copied. Go through the service tunnel behind the boiler room. It leads directly to the subway maintenance shaft on Wells Street. There's a train arriving at midnight. Get on it and don't look back."
"And you?" Eliza stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "What about you?"
"I have a house to clean," Silas said grimly. He drew a suppressed Walther PPK from his shoulder holster, checking the magazine with a practiced click. "Leon, take her through the tunnel. Make sure she gets to the tracks."
"Boss, I'm not leaving you here alone against twelve Moretti thugs," Leon protested.
"That wasn't a request, Mercer," Silas snapped, his voice cutting through the basement like a razor blade. "Get her out of here now."
As Leon grabbed Eliza’s arm to pull her toward the shadows of the boiler room, the heavy oak front doors of the restaurant upstairs splintered with a deafening crash. Shouts echoed through the dining room, followed by the sharp, terrifying crack of a silenced handgun.
They had breached the main floor.
Eliza pulled her arm free from Leon’s grip. Instead of running toward the dark tunnel, she grabbed her leather backpack, zipped the laptop inside, and turned back to face Silas, who was already stepping toward the stairs.
"What are you doing?" Silas hissed, his face twisting in sudden fury. "I told you to run!"
"I'm not running," Eliza said, her voice shaking but her jaw set with a fierce, reckless courage that mirrored his own. "Because if they find you dead in this basement, they'll hunt down Jerome and me anyway. We finish this together."
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Silas stared at her for one long, suspended heartbeat. Then, a strange, grim smile touched his lips. He pulled a small, backup snub-nosed revolver from his waistband and pressed it firmly into her hand.
"Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to break someone's ribs," he muttered. "Let's go."
