Chapter 9 - The Final Ambush At Dawn
The sound of approaching sirens wailed across the harbor basin, mingling with the heavy thrum of twin-engine tactical helicopters descending from the fog.
Salvatore Marcone, seeing his forces decimated and the docks surrounded, scrambled toward a high-speed speedboat moored at the pier’s emergency slipway. He held a leather briefcase filled with bearer bonds and forged travel documents, desperate to escape into international waters.
""Stop right there, old man!""
Leo stood on the gangway, holding the heavy shotgun he had retrieved from a fallen guard, aiming it with shaking hands at the crime boss.
Salvatore sneered, reaching for his concealed revolver. ""Get out of my way, boy, or I'll finish what I started.""
Before Salvatore could draw, three red laser dots converged on his chest.
From the shadows of the warehouse gates, six black tactical SUVs breached the perimeter, tires screeching on the wet concrete. Heavy doors flew open, and three dozen elite soldiers wearing the crest of the Duca syndicate fanned out, their assault rifles raised.
Leading the charge was Roman's personal medical unit and his secondary enforcer, a scarred, towering man named Marcus who had taken command the moment Victor’s betrayal was verified.
""Drop the weapon, Marcone,"" Marcus barked through a megaphone. ""Your snipers are dead. Your ships are seized. It's over.""
Salvatore looked around at the circle of iron and steel closing around him. He slowly dropped his weapon onto the wooden planks, raising his hands into the rain as the enforcers slammed him face-first into the concrete.
""Medic! We need a medic on the barge now!"" Clara’s desperate scream echoed over the water.
Marcus and four paramedics sprinted up the gangway, carrying trauma kits, defibrillators, and a portable stretcher.
Clara was still kneeling in the pool of blood, her clothes drenched, her hands pressed desperately against Roman’s torso. She was talking to him continuously, refusing to let the cold darkness claim him.
""Don't you dare close your eyes, Roman Duca,"" she sobbed, her voice raw and commanding. ""You don't get to save my life and then leave me alone in this city. You told me I wasn't allowed to leave your sight! Wake up!""
The paramedics pushed her gently aside, cutting away Roman's shirt, applying pressure dressings, and injecting adrenaline straight into his line.
""Pulse is weak, thread-like!"" the chief medic shouted over the rain. ""Bilateral chest trauma, abdominal hemorrhage. Get the oxygen on him! Move, move, move!""
They lifted Roman onto the stretcher. As they began wheeling him toward the mobile surgery unit inside the heavy tactical ambulance, his hand slipped from the gurney, his fingers brushing against Clara's coat.
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Clara caught his hand instantly. She interlaced her cold, trembling fingers with his.
For a fleeting second, Roman's hand twitched, his fingers tightening weakly around hers, holding on with the last ember of his conscious strength before the gurney doors slammed shut and the sirens screamed into the stormy dawn.
