Chapter 5 - The Riverfront Warehouse
The unmarked black sedan cut through the deserted industrial grid of the east riverfront, its high-beams slicing through the thick, late-night fog rolling in off the water.
In the back seat, I sat in absolute silence, cleaning the slide of my sidearm with a clean cloth while Carmine drove with one hand and monitored a tactical GPS tracker on his dashboard.
“Signal from the burner phone they left in the van is bouncing off Warehouse 14,” Carmine reported, his eyes fixed on the wet asphalt ahead. “It’s one of Rossi’s primary import facilities. Heavily reinforced, private security detail, and completely off the city precinct’s radar.”
“How many men?” I asked without looking up.
“Thermal imaging shows at least a dozen active heat signatures inside the main bay,” Carmine replied grimly. “And boss... there’s a smaller thermal signature right beside the main office. Small enough to be a child.”
My jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in my cheek.
The car slowed to a silent crawl, cutting its headlights a block away from the sprawling, corrugated-metal structure of Warehouse 14. The looming silhouette of the building sat right against the dark, churning waters of the East River, battered by the cold wind and the steady drizzle of rain.
I pushed my door open, stepping out into the wet gravel. The air smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and old iron.
“Wait for my signal,” I told Carmine, pulling my coat tightly around my shoulders to conceal the weapon at my waist.
“Boss, you’re not walking in there alone,” Carmine argued, his hand dropping to his own weapon.
“If I take a tactical squad through the front door, Rossi uses the girl as a shield before we clear the threshold,” I said coldly. “I’m going in alone. You and the team breach the rear loading docks thirty seconds after I trigger the power grid.”
Before Carmine could argue further, I turned and walked steadily down the dark, shadowed perimeter of the warehouse toward the rusted side personnel door.
The heavy metal door wasn’t locked. It clicked open with a soft, metallic nudge, revealing a pitch-black interior corridor smelling of motor oil and old cardboard boxes.
I slipped inside, the heavy door clicking shut behind me like a trap closing.
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Down the dark hallway, a single strip of yellow light bled out from beneath a reinforced office door, accompanied by the faint, terrifying sound of a child’s muffled crying.
I drew my revolver, checked the weight of it in my hand, and took my first silent step down the corridor.
