Chapter 9 - The Ambush at Queensbridge
Cole Maddox was starving, exhausted, and running out of places to hide.
His expensive suit was ruined, covered in mud and grease. He had stolen an old windbreaker from the back of an unlocked truck in Long Island City, pulling the hood low over his face as he skulked through the grimy industrial alleys beneath the Queensboro Bridge.
He had fifty dollars left in his pocket. He needed a vehicle. He needed a way out of New York before Nora’s network clamped down on every bridge, tunnel, and train station.
He ducked into an abandoned mechanic’s shop that used to serve as an auxiliary chop-shop for the Maddox Circle. The corrugated iron doors were chained shut, but Cole knew the secret crawlspace behind the rusted ventilation unit.
He slid through the gap, landing on the grease-stained concrete inside. The shop was dark, smelling of motor oil, damp cardboard, and decay.
"Just twenty-four hours," Cole muttered to himself, his voice trembling with manic desperation. "Just get across the Pennsylvania border. Find Jimmy in Scranton. Jimmy owes me his life. He'll give me a car, give me cash..."
"Jimmy died of a stroke six months ago, Cole."
The voice came from the darkness of the raised hydraulic lift.
Cole spun around, his heart hammering in his throat. He pulled a cheap switchblade from his pocket, the blade flicking out with a dull metallic *snick*.
"Who's there?" Cole screamed. "Come out! I'll gut you!"
A silhouette stepped forward from behind a stack of bald tires. The beam of an industrial flashlight clicked on, blinding Cole, pinning him like an insect under a glass lens.
"Put the knife away, Cole. You look ridiculous."
The light lowered slightly, revealing the scarred, aristocratic face of Julian Vance. Beside him stood Dennis Crowley, his hands resting easily on his gun belt.
Cole’s knees went weak. "Julian... Dennis... please. We were brothers! We ran the docks together! I paid you millions!"
"You paid me with Miss Bellamy’s money," Julian said calmly, stepping forward until he was five feet away. "And as for brotherhood... you never even bothered to learn the names of my parents. The parents Samuel Bellamy buried with full honors while you were still stealing radios out of parked cars in Boston."
"She’s going to kill me," Cole whimpered, dropping the knife. It clattered uselessly on the concrete. "She sent you to execute me, didn't she? Just do it. Just get it over with."
"Miss Bellamy doesn't want you dead, Cole," Dennis said with a slow shake of his head. "In fact, we're here to save your miserable life."
Before Cole could process the words, the sound of screeching tires echoed outside the mechanic’s shop.
Two black SUVs violently rammed through the chained corrugated doors, tearing the metal sheets from their tracks with a deafening roar of grinding iron and shattering glass!
High-intensity headlights flooded the interior of the shop. Doors flew open, and four men dressed in tactical black gear spilled out, carrying suppressed submachine guns!
"Kill them all!" a voice barked from the lead SUV. "Leave no one breathing!"
Cole screamed, diving behind a metal tool chest as the air was instantly shredded by the rhythmic, spitting fire of automatic weapons. Sparks flew off the steel machinery, bullets chewing through the concrete where Cole had been standing seconds before.
Julian Vance didn't flinch.
In a single, fluid motion that seemed to defy human reflexes, Julian drew two heavy-caliber pistols from beneath his trench coat. His hands were steady, his movements surgical.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
Three shots echoed through the cavernous shop. The lead gunman crumpled instantly, shot through the center of his chest. Dennis Crowley dropped to one knee behind an engine block, returning fire with deliberate, rhythmic precision, his shots puncturing the windshield of the second SUV.
"Get behind us, Cole!" Dennis yelled over the deafening din of gunfire.
Cole crawled on his belly like a terrified dog, grease smearing across his face, sobbing in absolute terror.
The men shooting at him were not North Harbor operatives. Cole recognized the tactical insignias on their vests—the silver falcon of Victor Sterling’s private security firm.
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*Victor didn't just abandon me,* Cole realized with cold, soul-crushing certainty as bullets ricocheted inches above his skull. *He sent an execution squad to erase me.*
***