Chapter 3 - The Freight Line Truth
The blast doors of the Pilsen warehouse buckled inward, screeching like dying metal as a cascade of sparks rained down into the lower loading bay. Thick white smoke rolled across the concrete floor, obscuring the figures of half a dozen heavily armed mercenaries pouring into the facility.
"They're through the lower bay!" Leo shouted, scrambling backward from his console while drawing a compact Glock from his waistband. "Dante, we're boxed in!"
Dante didn't flinch. He holstered his Sig and pulled a heavy brass-keyed switch from beneath the central control desk, flipping it hard to the right. A low, subterranean vibration began to shake the floorboards beneath their boots—a deep, rhythmic mechanical thrum that vibrated up through the soles of their feet.
"Get behind the server racks," Dante commanded, pushing Serena and a trembling Patricia toward the reinforced steel-plated alcove at the back of the room.
Serena grabbed her mother by the arm, hauling her bodily into cover before drawing her own revolver and resting her wrist steady against the edge of the metal casing. She didn't look like a pampered mob princess; she looked like a woman who had spent three years preparing for a war she knew was inevitable.
"Dante," Serena called out over the rising din of booted feet and shouted orders in the outer room. "If Marcus brings the trains through the spur line, the impact will blow the foundation walls! This whole building is built on nineteenth-century brick!"
"That's the point," Dante called back, drawing a second weapon—a short-barreled shotgun—from a rack beneath the desk. He racked the slide with a brutal, satisfying clack. "Esposito wanted a war on our turf. We're going to give him a demolition."
Through the billowing smoke of the wrecked warehouse floor, the first mercenary commander—a scarred brute named Miller whom Dante recognized from old union strikes—stepped into the control room, raising an assault rifle.
"Cavali!" Miller roared over the alarms. "Drop the gear and step out with your hands behind your head! Orders from Mr. Romano are—"
Miller never finished the sentence.
The floor beneath the warehouse didn't just shake; it erupted. With a thunderous roar that shattered every monitor in the control room, the massive front of a freight locomotive punched straight through the concrete foundation wall, sending tons of brick, steel, and pulverized earth cascading over the mercenaries like an avalanche.
The blinding headlights of the diesel engine cut through the smoke, illuminating the chaos in stark, terrifying relief.
Before Esposito’s men could recover from the shock, the side door of the locomotive cab swung open, and Marcus Vance dropped down onto the rubble, a twelve-gauge scattergun cradled casually in his thick arms.
"Evening, boys!" Marcus bellowed over the idling diesel engine. "Next stop, city hall!"
Dante stepped out from behind the server racks, the shotgun in his hand resting comfortably at his side. He looked down at Miller, who was half-buried under a slab of concrete, coughing blood and desperately clawing at his dropped rifle.
Dante walked over, placed the toe of his shoe gently across the barrel of the mercenary's gun, and looked down at him.
"Tell Vincent his logistics are outdated," Dante said quietly. "Trains always have the right of way."
Miller spat a mouthful of blood and managed a weak, jagged grin. "You think... you think this is Vincent’s play, Cavali? You're looking at the wrong map."
Dante stopped. The cold certainty in his chest flickered. "What did you say?"
"Vincent didn't order the hit on the docks," Miller choked out, his eyes glazing over as the weight of the rubble settled. "He... he was just the distraction."
Before Dante could press him further, Miller’s head fell back, unconscious or dead.
Dante stood frozen in the billowing steam of the locomotive engine. The words echoed in his mind, dismantling the core assumption he had lived by for the last three years.
Vincent was just the distraction.
If Vincent Romano wasn't the mastermind behind the coup, who was?
Serena stepped out from the alcove, her revolver still raised, her eyes scanning the wreckage. When she saw the look on Dante's face, she lowered the weapon slowly.
"What did he say?" Serena asked, her voice tight with tension.
Dante turned to look at her, the harsh light of the locomotive cutting sharp shadows across his face. For the first time all evening, the absolute control in his demeanor cracked.
"He said your father wasn't running the play," Dante said slowly.
Serena went pale. "That's impossible. Every financial transfer, every union threat—it all points back to my father's office."
"That's what your father wanted you to believe," a new voice chimed in from the shadows of the tunnel entrance.
Dante and Serena spun around, their weapons instantly raised.
Stepping out from the heavy steam of the locomotive cab, dressed not in tactical gear, but in an immaculate gray wool overcoat and leather gloves, was Arthur Pendleton—the aging family attorney who had handed Dante the divorce papers only hours ago.
Arthur adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, a calm, almost paternal smile touching the corners of his mouth.
May you like
"Good evening, Dante," Arthur said smoothly, holding a small silver pocket watch in his palm. "I must say, your railway connection is remarkably punctual."
---
