Chapter 4 - The Bait in Long Island City
The rain was still pouring as midnight approached, casting a glistening sheen over the rusted iron beams and industrial shadows of Long Island City.
Harlan’s stronghold was a former meatpacking plant sitting on the edge of the East River. It was surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, watched by high-definition infrared cameras, and guarded by private security personnel armed with military-grade carbines.
Inside my armored command vehicle, parked three blocks away in an abandoned train yard, the air was tense.
Tony was adjusting the tactical harness over his dark Kevlar vest. Six of my best squad leaders were checking their suppressed rifles, locking thirty-round magazines into place. Beside me, Bruno sat quietly, a heavy tactical harness strapped around his broad chest, his leash held firmly in my left hand.
On the desk in front of us, Marco’s phone sat on speakerphone.
The line rang three times. Then, a sharp, gravelly voice answered.
"Ricci," Victor Harlan spoke, the noise of a glass clinking against ice audible in the background. "Is it done? Is the girl in the ground?"
I held a knife to Marco’s throat, pressing the tip just hard enough into his flesh to draw a single drop of red.
Marco swallowed down his terror, forcing his voice into a steady, flat tone. "It’s done, Victor. The funeral ended an hour ago. The parents took the casket to St. Raymond’s Cemetery. She’s six feet under."
A low, cruel laugh came through the speaker. "Good. Pain in the ass, that little brat. Vance was sweating bullets all morning thinking someone would notice her skin was too cold. What about Mateo?"
"He’s back at his estate," Marco said, his voice cracking slightly before he caught himself. "He’s angry about the girl, but he doesn't suspect a thing. He thinks it was just a random hit-and-run."
"Excellent," Harlan said, his tone shifting into cold business. "The shipment of forty girls from the docks is loaded onto two refrigerated tractor-trailers in my lower yard right now. We move them out to the Connecticut distribution hub at 2:00 AM. I need your clearance codes for the highway toll bypass."
"I have the codes," Marco stammered. "I’ll bring them to the packing plant myself in twenty minutes."
"Don't bother," Harlan snapped. "Text them to me. And Ricci... make sure Mateo stays quiet tomorrow. We have a big week ahead of us."
The line went dead.
I pulled the blade back from Marco’s neck and wiped it on his collar.
"Two refrigerated tractor-trailers," Tony whispered, his eyes wide with dark fury. "Forty girls. The sick bastard is moving them tonight."
"He thinks he has two hours," I said, standing up and pulling my heavy custom 1911 pistol from its holster, checking the chamber with a crisp, metallic clack. "We give him five minutes."
"Boss," Tony warned, pointing at the laptop screen showing the infrared thermal layout of the meatpacking facility. "They’ve got thermal imaging on the perimeter. The moment our trucks hit that alley, their automated turrets will light us up."
"Then we don't use trucks," I said, looking down at Bruno.
The dog looked up at me, his ears pricking forward, his tail giving a single, hard thump against the rubber floor of the van.
"The old meat-hook drainage system," I said, pointing to a blue line running beneath the facility layout on the monitor. "It drains straight into the East River. It’s a four-foot concrete pipe clogged with forty years of grease, rust, and river silt. Human men can't fit through the upper valve without making noise."
"But Bruno can," Tony realized, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Bruno carries the breach charges through the pipe, attaches the magnetic detonators to the primary generator room from the inside, and cuts their power," I said. "When the lights go out, we hit the front gates with the armored ram."
I knelt in front of the massive Cane Corso, taking his large, scarred head between my hands. I looked directly into his dark, intelligent eyes.
"Bruno," I whispered, holding a small black canvas pouch containing two magnetic thermal charges up to his nose. "Go find the power. Big boom, boy. Go find the power."
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Bruno sniffed the canvas pouch, let out a low, eager huff, and nudged my knee with his heavy snout.
"Tony," I said, standing up and racking my slide. "Tell the men... no survivors on Harlan’s tactical payroll. If a man took a paycheck from Victor Harlan tonight, he doesn't leave Long Island City breathing."
