Chapter 6 - The Decoy Ambush
The rain had turned into a relentless, grey downpour by 7:45 AM, slicking the asphalt of the West Seattle freeway and turning the morning commute into a sluggish river of brake lights.
Three black, bulletproof Cadillac Escalades pulled out of the underground parking garage of the Drake Tower, accelerating smoothly into the damp gloom. Inside the lead vehicle, two of Viktor’s most trusted enforcers wore tactical helmets and heavy ballistic vests, their silhouettes perfectly matching the profiles of Griffin and his security detail.
High above the freeway, perched on the top floor of an abandoned multi-story parking garage, Marco Valenti’s lead sniper peered through the high-powered scope of a customized Dragunov rifle.
"Target sighted. Convoy is moving north on sector four," the sniper whispered into his comms unit, his thumb resting lightly on the trigger.
Down on the street level, hidden inside a panel van parked near the off-ramp, Marco Valenti grinned like a shark smelling blood in the water. He held a secure two-way radio, his eyes glittering with manic triumph.
"Listen to me, boys," Valenti barked into the radio. "Griffin Drake thinks he can hide his little bastard daughters and his runaway whore in a glass tower forever. Light up that lead vehicle. Take out the engine block, breach the doors, and bring me whatever's inside. Leave no survivors."
"Copy that, boss," a gruff voice crackled back through the static.
A split second later, the world exploded in a flash of orange fire and deafening noise.
An anti-tank rocket, fired from an overpass fifty yards ahead, streaked through the grey morning air and slammed directly into the asphalt ten feet in front of the lead Escalade. The massive explosion threw a wall of flame and debris across three lanes of traffic, sending screeching cars spinning out of control in every direction.
The lead Escalade slammed on its brakes, skidding sideways across the wet asphalt as a dozen armed men dressed in black tactical gear poured out from behind the concrete pillars of the overpass, automatic weapons blazing in a coordinated ambush.
"Fire! Fire! Breach the doors!" screaming voices echoed through the pouring rain.
The Valenti enforcers swarmed the stalled convoy, riddling the side panels of the lead vehicle with hundreds of rounds of armor-piercing ammunition. The rear doors of the Escalade blew open under the force of a breaching charge—
And out tumbled three mannequins dressed in tactical gear and heavy winter coats, rigged with smoke grenades and electronic dummy units.
The lead Valenti gunman froze, staring down at the smoking dummies with a sudden, sinking horror in his gut.
"It's a trap!" the sniper screamed over the comms from the parking garage roof. "It's a fucking trap! Get out of there—"
Before the warning could finish, the sky above the freeway seemed to open up.
Dozens of unmarked black SUVs, coming from three different intersecting side streets, completely surrounded the overpass in a lightning-fast, military-grade pincer movement. Before Valenti’s men could even raise their weapons to retreat, heavy, suppressive fire rained down from the surrounding rooftops.
It wasn't a firefight. It was an execution.
Within ninety seconds, twenty Valenti operatives lay face-down on the wet asphalt, disarmed, restrained, and neutralized without a single casualty on the Drake side.
And sitting inside the panel van a block away, Marco Valenti stared at his radio in stunned, paralyzed disbelief as the static hissed endlessly.
The side door of his van was ripped off its hinges with a sickening crunch of tearing metal.
Marco looked up, his breath catching in his throat.
Standing in the pouring rain, framed by the grey morning light and holding a smoking Sig Sauer pistol, was Griffin Drake.
His face was a mask of cold, terrifying vengeance.
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"Hello, Marco," Griffin whispered, his voice like the grinding of millstones.
Before Valenti could reach for the pistol tucked into his waistband, Griffin’s heavy boot slammed into his chest, sending the rival syndicate boss crashing backward into the floor of the van as the darkness closed in.
