Chapter 4 - The Ambush at the Mill
The old cider mill sat at the edge of a abandoned limestone quarry, two miles south of the main highway.
The structure was built of heavy timber and fieldstone, its wooden waterwheel half-sunken into a mud creek. The surrounding area was choked with tall pine trees, providing excellent thermal cover from the late afternoon sun.
Clara parked the blue Ford truck inside the darkened lower level of the mill, where cider barrels had once been stored.
"Stay in the truck," Adrian told Clara and Maya, pulling his Glock from his belt. "Lock the doors. If anyone other than me opens this bay, hit the gas and drive straight into the creek."
Maya reached out from the middle seat, grabbing Adrian's sleeve with her tiny hand. "Mr. Adrian?"
Adrian stopped, looking down at her.
"Don't lose my wrench," she whispered, pointing to the crescent tool still sticking out of his coat pocket.
Adrian’s expression softened for a fraction of a second. "I won't lose it, Maya. I promise."
He stepped out into the damp, shadowy interior of the mill, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.
Outside, the woods were dead quiet. The afternoon heat had peaked, leaving the air heavy with the scent of damp moss and pine sap.
Three minutes later, the low rumble of a heavy V8 engine approached from the dirt logging trail.
The black Escalade rolled into the clearing, its tires crunching over the gravel. It stopped thirty yards from the mill entrance.
The doors opened simultaneously. Four men in tactical vests carrying suppressed submachine guns stepped out, taking defensive positions behind the armored vehicle doors.
Finally, Marcus Vale stepped out from the driver’s side. He wore his tailored grey suit, but his tie was loosened, his face slick with sweat. He held a high-caliber pistol in his right hand.
"Adrian!" Marcus shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the mill. "Come out! There’s no signal out here, and nobody knows where you are!"
Adrian stepped out from behind a heavy timber support beam on the second-story balcony of the mill, five feet above the ground. He stood in full view, his dark eyes locked onto his former chief of security.
"I know where I am, Marcus," Adrian said calmly, his voice carrying clearly through the silent forest. "The question is why my chief of security is standing on private property with four hired mercenaries."
Marcus looked up, a bitter, nervous smile touching his lips. "It’s nothing personal, Boss. It’s just arithmetic."
"Whose arithmetic?" Adrian asked. "Don Carlo Romano?"
Marcus scoffed. "Romano is a dinosaur dying in a hotel room. No. The Romano family is finished, thanks to what you did in Red Hook last winter. But the syndicate bosses in Chicago... they don't like a man who tries to turn a hundred-million-dollar criminal enterprise into a legitimate freight business."
Adrian nodded slowly. "They paid you to clear the path."
"They paid me twenty million dollars to make sure you died on a quiet country road," Marcus said, raising his pistol toward the balcony. "They want the old ways back, Adrian. They want the gambling, the extortion, the drugs. They don't want a philosopher king in an Italian suit."
"And Marco Rossi?" Adrian asked, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "Eight years ago. Did Chicago pay for him too?"
Marcus’s eyes flickered with brief surprise. "Rossi? That union idiot? He was just collateral damage. Like that woman and her kid in the house back there."
Adrian’s jaw locked with absolute, murderous resolve.
"You made three mistakes today, Marcus," Adrian said flatly.
Marcus chuckled bitterly. "Oh yeah? What were they, Boss?"
"First, you tampered with my car, but you didn't check who lived down the road," Adrian said. "Second, you threatened a six-year-old girl."
Marcus narrowed his eyes, finger tightening on the trigger. "And the third?"
Adrian pulled the satellite transmitter from his pocket and held it up.
"Third," Adrian said softly. "You assumed I came alone."
From the pine forest surrounding the clearing, six heavy suburban utility vehicles burst through the tree line at fifty miles an hour, surrounding the Escalade in a tight circle of steel and bull-bars.
The doors flew open. Twelve elite Moretti enforcers—led by Sam Russo—stepped out, their heavy rifles trained directly on Marcus and his four mercenaries.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Sam roared, his voice echoing like thunder through the quarry.
The four mercenaries instantly dropped their submachine guns onto the gravel, raising their hands in absolute surrender. They were professionals; they knew when an operation was hopelessly lost.
Marcus stood alone in the center of the circle, his pistol still pointed feebly at Adrian. His face was gray, his chest heaving with terrified, ragged breaths.
Adrian stepped off the balcony, landing lightly on his feet on the gravel driveway. He walked slowly toward Marcus, his long dark coat trailing behind him.
"Adrian... please," Marcus stammered, his hand shaking so violently the gun wobbled in the air. "We... we were brothers for twelve years..."
Adrian reached out, grabbed the barrel of Marcus’s pistol with his bare hand, and twisted it sharply out of his grip, snapping Marcus's wrist with a sickening CRACK.
Marcus screamed in agony, collapsing to his knees in the dirt.
Adrian handed the weapon to Sam Russo. He looked down at the traitor kneeling at his feet, feeling no anger, no hatred—only a profound, absolute disgust.
"Take him to the basement in Queens," Adrian ordered Sam flatly. "Find out every name in Chicago involved in this contract. Then hand him over to the federal authorities with Marco Rossi's original file."
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"Understood, Boss," Sam said grimly, dragging Marcus off the ground.
Adrian turned his back on the scene and walked back into the dark interior of the cider mill.
