Chapter 70 The Rescue

Chapter 70 The Rescue
The facility rose from the flat Illinois landscape like a wound on the earth, concrete and steel, no windows, no signs, no indication that anything existed behind its walls except the darkness that had consumed twenty-three years of Lucia Marini's life.

Benito studied it through binoculars from a rise a quarter mile away. His team crouched in the tall grass around him, waiting.

"Four entrances," he murmured. "Main gate, two service doors, and a loading bay at the rear. Guards change at 0600 and 1800. Twelve on duty during the day, eighteen at night. We hit at dawn, lowest alertness, just before shift change."

Marcus studied the schematics on a tablet. "The walls are reinforced concrete. My charges can breach, but it'll be loud."

"Loud is fine. We're not here to be quiet." Benito looked at each of them in turn. "We're here to be fast."

Dante checked his weapon. "And the trap?"

Benito's jaw tightened. "It's there. They know we're coming. The only question is what kind of welcome he's prepared."

"Then we adapt." Bella's voice was steady. She'd insisted on coming, not to fight, but to coordinate the extraction. Her men were positioned a mile back, vehicles ready, medical supplies waiting. "You go in. You get her out. We handle the rest."

Benito nodded. "Everyone clear?"

Heads nodded around him.

"Then let's move."

They approached the facility like ghosts, using the last minutes of darkness as cover. Marcus peeled off toward the eastern wall, his charges ready. Victor and Francesco took the western service entrance. Dante covered the rear loading bay. And Benito walked straight toward the front gate, because sometimes a good strategy doesn't bother with subtlety.

The first guard died without a sound. Benito's knife found his throat, and he was down before he could raise his weapon. The second saw him coming, opened his mouth to shout, and caught a bullet between the eyes.

Benito stepped over their bodies and kept moving.

Behind him, the first explosion ripped through the morning, Marcus's charges, breaching the eastern wall. Then another from the west, Victor and Francesco, making their own entrance. Then gunfire, shouts, the chaos of men reacting too late.

Benito moved through the corridor, his weapon up, his eyes scanning. He'd memorized the schematics, knew every turn, every door, every possible ambush point. The cells were in the lower level, at the end of a long hallway lined with doors that had remained closed for decades.

He reached the stairs and started down.

The first wave of guards hit him at the bottom.

Four men, well-trained, weapons raised. They'd been waiting, just as Lorenzo and Vitale had planned. Benito didn't slow. His first shot took the lead guard in the chest. His second found the next man's throat. He dove behind a concrete pillar as return fire chewed the wall where he'd been standing.

Victor's voice crackled in his earpiece. "Western corridor is hot. At least six hostiles."

"Eastern wall is breached, but they're regrouping," Marcus added. "I've got wounded, nothing serious, but I'm pinned."

Dante's voice: "Rear loading bay is clear. Moving to support Benito."

Benito fired twice, dropped another guard, and ran for the next pillar. Bullets sparked off the concrete around him. He could see the cell block ahead, the door to Lucia's cell, twenty yards away.

Twenty yards that might as well have been a mile.

Victor moved through the western corridor like the killer he'd been trained to be. His knife flashed, and a guard fell. His gun barked, and another dropped. He'd survived the streets of New York, survived the family and country wars, survived everything the mafioso world had thrown at him.

He didn't see the shooter in the shadows until it was too late.

The bullet took him in the chest, high, close to the shoulder, but enough to spin him. He fired back blindly, felt his legs give way, hit the ground hard. Francesco was there a second later, dragging him behind cover, pressing a hand to the wound.

"Victor! Stay with me!"

Victor's eyes fluttered. "Get... get her out..."

"Shut up and stay conscious." Francesco fired down the corridor, dropping two more guards. "You're not dying today."

But Victor's eyes were already closing, his breath already slowing.

Francesco kept firing, kept fighting, kept hoping.

Marcus's leg was a mess. Shrapnel from a grenade had torn through his prosthetic and into the flesh above, not fatal, but enough to slow him down. He'd lost feeling in his left side, couldn't put weight on it, but he kept firing, kept moving, kept placing charges.

"Eastern wall is compromised," he gasped into the comm. "They're pushing hard. I can't hold much longer."

"Fall back," Benito ordered. "Get to the extraction point."

"I can still..."

"That's an order, soldier."

Marcus hesitated, then nodded. He fired a final burst, covering his retreat, and began the long crawl toward daylight.

Dante reached the lower level just as Benito ran out of cover.

Three guards were advancing, pinning Benito behind a pillar too small to protect him for long. Dante didn't hesitate, he opened fire from the stairwell, dropping two before they knew he was there. The third spun, raised his weapon, and caught a round from Benito's pistol.

They moved toward each other, checking corners, covering angles.

"Victor's down," Francesco's voice crackled. "He's alive, but barely. Marcus is hit. I'm falling back with Victor now."

Benito's face tightened. "Get them out. We'll finish this."

Dante nodded. Together, they moved toward the cell block.

The door to Lucia's cell was reinforced steel, locked electronically. Benito didn't bother trying to open it—he placed a charge, stepped back, and blew it off its hinges.

Smoke cleared.

And there she was.

Lucia Marini stood in the center of her cell, her back straight, her chin lifted. She was thinner than he remembered, older, her face marked by decades of isolation. But her eyes, those fierce, knowing eyes, were still the same.

She looked at him without recognition.

Benito understood. Two years of surgery, of changing his face, of becoming someone else. She didn't know him. Couldn't know him.

"Lucia." His voice cracked. "It's me."

She stared at him, her expression unreadable.

Then footsteps behind them, more guards, regrouping, advancing. Dante spun, firing, holding them back.

"We need to move!" Dante shouted.

Benito stepped toward his sister, his hands raised, his heart pounding.

"I know you don't recognize me. I know I look different. But I need you to trust me. Just for a moment. Just long enough to get out of here."

Lucia studied him. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Benito grabbed her hand and ran.

They burst out of the facility into chaos. Smoke, fire, the crack of gunfire from all directions. Dante covered their retreat, firing at shadows. Benito pulled Lucia toward the extraction point, half-carrying her when her legs gave out.

Bella was waiting, her men forming a perimeter, weapons raised. She saw Benito, saw the woman beside him, and nodded.

"Go! We'll hold them!"

Benito pushed Lucia into the back of an armored SUV, climbed in after her, and slammed the door. The driver floored the accelerator, and they were gone.

They drove for twenty minutes in silence, putting distance between themselves and the facility. Lucia sat rigid in the back seat, her eyes fixed on Benito, her hands gripping the seat beneath her.

Finally, Benito reached up and removed her blindfold.

She blinked in the sudden light, her eyes adjusting. Then she looked at him again, really looked, and he saw the confusion, the hope, the fear.

"I don't..." Her voice was raw from disuse. "I don't know you."

Benito's heart broke.

"I know." He leaned forward, his voice gentle. "I had surgery. Two years ago. I needed to disappear, to become someone else. But I'm still me, Lucia. I'm still your brother."

She shook her head slowly. "Prove it."

Benito thought for a moment. Then he smiled, a small, sad smile.

"Do you remember the summer when you were seven? You found a wounded bird in the garden. You nursed it back to health in a shoebox under your bed. Mom was furious when she found out, said it was unsanitary. But you didn't care. You named it Picolo, after the flute, because its song was so small and sweet."

Lucia's eyes widened.

"It lived for three weeks. You cried for days when it died. I sat with you in the garden while you buried it under the rose bush. You made me promise never to tell anyone that you'd cried." Benito's voice softened. "I've never told anyone. Not once. Not in twenty-three years."

Lucia stared at him. Tears welled in her eyes, the first tears she'd shed in decades.

"Benito," she whispered.

And then she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest, holding him like she'd never let go.

Benito held her tight, his own tears falling freely, his heart full for the first time in twenty-three years.

"I'm here," he murmured. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

They stayed like that for a long time, brother and sister reunited after twenty-three years of separation, while the SUV carried them away from the facility and toward whatever came next.

Behind them, the facility burned.

Dante stood at the extraction point, watching the flames, counting the cost. Victor was gone. Marcus was wounded. Three of Bella's men were dead.

But Lucia was free.

Bella came to stand beside him, her hand finding his.

"He did it," she said quietly.

Dante nodded. "He did."

"And now?"

Dante looked toward the horizon, toward the city where his father waited, where Lorenzo Moretti waited, where the another battle loomed.

"Now we finish it."

They turned and walked toward the remaining vehicles, leaving the fire behind.

Day four was ending. Day five was coming.

And the war was far from over.