Chapter 8 - The Strike in the Vault
Mr. Duca didn't step aside. He didn't flinch.
In a single, fluid motion born of years of tactical training, Mr. Duca reached into his inner suit pocket, drawing his custom sidearm, and fired two precise rounds.
The quiet underground chamber shattered with deafening sound.
The two mercenaries flanking Thomas collapsed to the concrete floor before they could even raise their weapons.
Thomas gasped in shock, backing toward the stone stairs as he aimed his gun at Mr. Duca, but Mr. Duca closed the distance in a fraction of a second. He grabbed Thomas's wrist, twisting it upward until the bone snapped with a loud crack, sending the silver pistol clattering across the damp stone.
Mr. Duca slammed his broad palm into Thomas's chest, throwing his cousin against the granite wall, and pinned him by his throat.
"You threatened a child in my home, Thomas," Mr. Duca growled, his deep voice shaking the subterranean walls.
"Victor... wait!" Thomas choked out, tears of pain spilling down his fair cheeks. "We can share the terminals! The board will validate the transfer!"
"The board belongs to me, Thomas," Mr. Duca whispered coldly. "And you belong in a federal cell."
Mr. Duca delivered a swift, brutal blow to Thomas's jaw, rendering him unconscious, and let him drop onto the stone floor like a sack of rocks.
He turned back to Marcus, who was kneeling on the floor in absolute surrender. "Marcus. Call the federal prosecutor. Tell him I have the evidence of the 1994 commercial land theft."
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Mr. Duca walked over to the cot, gently lifting sixty-five-year-old Eleanor Harper into his broad arms. He turned to six-year-old Mia, who was watching him with wide, wonder-filled brown eyes.
"Let's go upstairs, Mia," Mr. Duca said gently, his rugged face softening completely. "It's time to take your grandmother to your mother."
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