Chapter 4 - The Railyard War
The abandoned railyard on the southern edge of the industrial district looked like a skeletal ribcage rising out of the mist rolling off the river. Rusted locomotives sat tilted on broken tracks, and overgrown weeds choked the concrete foundations of warehouses that had been abandoned during the collapse of the city’s steel boom in the nineties.
Two matte-black SUVs cut their headlights three hundred yards out, rolling silently into the shadows behind a stack of shipping containers.
Inside the lead vehicle, the dashboard glowed with tactical readouts. Salvo tapped the screen, bringing up a thermal feed of the primary warehouse building.
“Four heat signatures on the ground floor, Boss,” Salvo reported, checking the magazine of his submachine gun with a practiced click. “Two more on the catwalk. Heavy ordnance. Looks like a strike team from the Outfit’s enforcer division. They aren't here to negotiate.”
In the backseat, Maya sat quietly between two armed operatives, wearing Damon’s oversized jacket like a cape. The Warden sat at her feet, perfectly still, its breath pluming in the cold night air, its eyes fixed on the distant warehouse doors.
Damon sat in the front passenger seat, checking the slide of a custom-engraved Sig Sauer P226. He didn't wear body armor. He wore a fresh black wool coat over a dark turtleneck—the uniform of a man who intended to finish what his grandfather had started, but with modern precision.
“We go in through the loading bay on the north side,” Damon instructed, his voice flat and level. “Salvo, you take the catwalk. Clear the snipers. Anton, you secure the perimeter exits. Nobody leaves this yard alive.”
“Understood, Boss,” Salvo murmured.
Damon turned his head back to look at the little girl in the backseat. “Maya. Stay here with the dog. If you hear shooting, don't look out the window.”
Maya nodded solemnly, her small fingers clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Bring Mommy back, Uncle Damon.”
“I already signed their death warrants,” Damon said softly. “They just don't know it yet.”
He pushed his door open and stepped out into the biting wind.
The approach was silent. The Castellano enforcers moved like ghosts through the maze of rusted boxcars, their training far superior to the sloppy perimeter guards of the rival faction. Within three minutes, a sharp, muffled thud echoed from the catwalk as Salvo neutralized the first sniper with a suppressed round.
Damon didn't wait for confirmation. He strode straight toward the heavy sliding door of the central warehouse, his boots crunching softly on gravel.
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Two guards stood outside the corrugated metal entrance, smoking cigarettes and laughing quietly. They never saw the shadows detach themselves from the wall. Before their laughter could fade, two silenced cracks split the night air, and both men crumpled into the dirt without a sound.
Damon grabbed the edge of the heavy iron door and shoved it open.
