Chapter 67
The firefight on the executive floors was swift and brutally one-sided. The private military contractors were trained for corporate security, not the sheer, overwhelming violence of the Falcone strike team. The sharp, suppressed cracks of gunfire echoed through the luxurious, darkened corridors. High-intensity tactical lights cut through the blackness, blinding the hostiles. Domenico advanced relentlessly, an immovable object of sociopathic determination. He fired with robotic, surgical precision, dropping armed guards before they could even pull their triggers. "Clear the perimeter," Domenico commanded his men as they reached the massive double doors of the CEO's private office. He kicked the doors inward. The emergency backup lights cast a harsh, pale glow over the room. Marcus Vance, a fair-skinned man in his fifties, scrambled desperately away from his desk, drawing a gold-plated sidearm. Domenico did not seek cover. He closed the distance with blinding, explosive speed, disarming the CEO with a violent twist of his tattooed hand. He drove the man to his knees on the plush carpet. The corporate syndicate had been utterly dismantled in less than twelve minutes.
