Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Willow Creek Park
The afternoon sun beat down warmly on Willow Creek Park as Sophia swung back and forth, her laughter ringing out clear and bright against the rustle of oak leaves.
“Higher! Higher!” Sophia squealed, her pigtails flying behind her.
Aleandro stood behind the swing, his hands gripping the chains, pushing her with steady, rhythmic precision. Every time she reached the peak of her arc, her small sneakers kicked toward the sky, exactly as she had promised.
Maria sat on a nearby bench, holding a paper bag containing two strawberry ice cream cones that Aleandro had purchased from a hesitant vendor who looked ready to faint.
Suddenly, Aleandro stopped the swing.
Sophia pouted, looking back. “Why’d you stop?”
Aleandro didn’t answer. His body went completely rigid. His head turned slightly toward the tree line bordering the park’s northern walking path.
The wind had shifted. The ambient noise of children playing seemed to fade into a hollow hum.
Two men in dark windbreakers were walking down the gravel path toward the playground. Their hands were jammed deep into their pockets, but the distinctive bulge beneath their left ribs and the cold, flat calculation in their eyes gave them away instantly. They weren't tourists. They weren't fathers.
They were professionals. And they were moving directly toward the swings.
“Sophia,” Aleandro said, his voice dropping into a low, controlled register that brooked zero argument. “Take my hand. Walk to your mother. Do not look back.”
Sophia sensed the sudden shift in the air. Her lower lip quivered. “Mister—”
“Now,” Aleandro commanded softly, but firmly.
He swept Sophia up in one powerful arm, walking swiftly toward Maria on the bench. He handed the child to her mother with a single, fluid motion.
“Get behind the concession pavilion,” Aleandro instructed Maria, his hand sliding beneath his sweater to the small of his back, where a compact Glock had been tucked into his waistband despite his civilian clothes. “Do not stop running until you reach the car.”
“Mr. Moretti—!” Maria cried out, her face draining of color.
“Go.”
Before Maria could move, the two men in windbreakers increased their pace, pulling suppressed automatic pistols from their jackets. But before they could raise their weapons, a black sedan tore off the asphalt roadway, bouncing over the curb and slamming directly into the path of the assassins.
The doors flew open. Three Moretti enforcers—men who had stayed behind on standby—poured out of the vehicle, returning fire with ruthless efficiency.
Gunshots cracked through the afternoon air, sending terrified parents and children scattering in every direction.
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Aleandro shoved Maria and Sophia behind the thick concrete wall of the pavilion, shielding them with his own body. His eyes were cold, black pits of fury.
“Stay down,” he whispered, before stepping out into the open fire zone.
