Chapter 14
Geneva was draped in a freezing, miserable drizzle. At a highly exclusive private bank situated on a cobblestone street, the quiet luxury of the ultra-wealthy was abruptly shattered by the arrival of Richard Bellacorte and his heavily armed security detachment.
The bank manager, a middle-aged Swiss executive wearing gold-rimmed glasses, sweated profusely under Richard’s razor-sharp, predatory gaze inside the VIP boardroom.
"Mr. Bellacorte, please," the manager stammered, nervously wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "We operate under the strictest client confidentiality protocols in the world. I cannot disclose the transaction history of Dominic Bellacorte’s account, regardless of your paternal relationship."
"Your confidentiality protocols cannot stop a bullet," Richard stated in a flat, terrifyingly smooth tone as he leisurely clipped the end of an expensive cigar. Frank, standing directly behind the manager, silently drew his heavy pistol and placed it on the glass table with a sharp, resonant clack.
The manager swallowed hard, his trembling hands flying across his encrypted laptop keyboard. "The... the last transaction was executed six hours ago. The entire balance of fifty million euros was wired to a shell corporation specializing in Alpine real estate, near the Italian border."
"Latitude 47," Richard murmured. "They used my son's blood money to purchase a fortress. Give me the exact coordinates. Now."
The moment Richard and Frank stepped out of the bank's ornate brass doors, a heavy commercial delivery truck suddenly accelerated off the main road, careening wildly over the sidewalk directly toward them.
"Boss! Get down!" Frank roared, tackling Richard and rolling them both behind a massive marble pillar.
The truck slammed into the stone fountain in front of the bank, shattering the masonry. The rear cargo doors burst open, and a dozen heavily armed mercenaries wearing black tactical gear and ballistic masks poured out, unleashing a deafening hail of automatic gunfire upon Richard’s team.
The quiet Geneva street instantly transformed into a bloody warzone. Panicked pedestrians screamed and scattered. Richard’s bodyguards immediately returned fire, establishing a formidable defensive perimeter of overwhelming suppressive force.
Richard didn't flinch. He drew his custom sidearm from his shoulder holster, taking cover behind a bronze statue. With the cold, calculating experience of a man who had survived decades of gangland warfare, every shot Richard fired found its mark. Two mercenaries attempting to flank the statue were instantly dropped with hollow-point rounds through their visors.
"They’re Iron Collar operatives!" Frank shouted over the deafening rattle of gunfire. "They're using armor-piercing rounds!"
"Call the extraction chopper! We fall back in a V-formation!" Richard ordered, slamming a fresh magazine into his pistol and laying down cover fire for his wounded men.
Just as they retreated toward their armored SUV waiting at the end of the block, a severely wounded mercenary lying on the wet asphalt pulled the pin on a heavy smoke grenade. Thick, impenetrable black smoke engulfed the street. In the ensuing chaos, a towering figure lunged from the smog, driving a high-voltage stun baton directly into Frank’s neck. Frank collapsed instantly. The phantom attacker snatched the tactical briefcase containing the printed coordinates and vanished onto a waiting motorcycle.
Richard roared in fury, firing blindly into the smoke, but the motorcycle’s engine faded into the city traffic. He hauled the unconscious Frank into the armored SUV.
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"Boss... the briefcase... they took the map," Frank wheezed before passing out.
"It doesn't matter," Richard slammed the heavy steel door, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous intent. "I don't need a map to find a rat's nest."
