Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Slaughterhouse
The East River lapped violently against the slime-covered rocks of the drainage outlet.
The air was rank with the stench of salt water, old oil, and decay. I stood knee-deep in the freezing tide, holding Bruno’s harness as Tony pried open the heavy, rusted iron grate of the drainage pipe with a hydraulic jack.
"Pipe's clear for thirty yards, Boss," Tony whispered, shining a low-powered red flashlight into the dark concrete tube. "Then it hits the vertical shaft right beneath their generator room."
I slipped the canvas harness containing the magnetic charges over Bruno’s back, clipping the breakaway latch to his chest.
"Go, boy," I whispered, patting his flank. "Silent."
Bruno didn't hesitate. The massive black dog melted into the darkness of the pipe, his heavy body moving with uncanny, silent grace through the sludge and standing water. Within five seconds, the sound of his breathing was completely swallowed by the sound of the rain outside.
I checked my tactical watch.
00:14 AM.
We waited in the cold water, four of my men squeezed along the slippery rock wall, their suppressed weapons aimed at the perimeter fence above us.
One minute passed.
Two minutes.
From high above, inside the dark, looming outline of the meatpacking factory, came the faint, distant sound of a dog bark—sharp, commanding, and echoed immediately by a muffled voice shouting in surprise.
"Hey! What the hell is a dog doing in the electrical bay—"
BOOM!
A muted, heavy explosion shook the ground beneath our feet.
Instantly, every light across the entire three-acre meatpacking facility went dark. The high-powered halogen floodlights killed. The infrared cameras whined to a dead stop. The heavy iron security gates lost power, their magnetic locks disengaging with a loud, ringing CLANG.
"MOVE!" I roared.
We scrambled up the muddy riverbank, leaping over the perimeter chain-link fence as my heavy armored transport truck—driven by two of my soldiers—hit the main entrance gate at forty miles an hour.
The steel gates tore free from their concrete pillars with a deafening screech of ripping metal.
My team flooded the yard under the cover of total darkness and blinding rain. Harlan’s guards were scrambling out of the side doors, shouting in confusion, pulling night-vision goggles over their helmets, firing blind into the downpour.
I raised my suppressed rifle, squeezing the trigger three times. Two guards on the loading dock dropped into the slush before they could raise their weapons.
"Clear the dock!" Tony yelled, throwing a flashbang through the open bay door of the main facility.
A blinding sphere of white light and a thunderous CRACK illuminated the interior of the warehouse. We stormed through the smoke, our boots slipping on the blood and oil-stained concrete floor.
Harlan’s mercenary force was ruthless, but they were panicking in the dark. We moved like a machine—the Queens Syndicate executing a cleansing. We cleared the packing floor room by room, the sound of semi-automatic fire echoing off the corrugated iron walls.
"Mateo!" a bark echoed from the upper catwalk.
I looked up. Victor Harlan was standing behind an iron railing near his office, wearing a dark coat, holding an automatic machine pistol in his right hand. Beside him stood Krell—the massive, scarred mercenary who had driven the truck that hit Elena Vasquez.
Krell was holding a heavy shotgun, aiming directly down at my head.
"Die, you mob bastard!" Krell roared, tightening his finger on the trigger.
Before Krell could squeeze, a black shadow burst out from the shadows of the upper office door behind them.
Bruno leaped through the air, a hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and teeth, slamming directly into Krell’s chest.
The heavy shotgun fired harmlessly into the ceiling, blowing out a sheet of tin roof, as Krell screamed in agony. Bruno’s jaws locked around the mercenary’s right arm, the force of the dog’s momentum tearing Krell clean over the metal railing.
Krell and Bruno tumbled twenty feet through the air, crashing onto a pile of wooden pallets on the warehouse floor with a sickening crunch.
"Krell!" Harlan screamed, his face twisted in horror.
I didn't give Harlan a second to recover. I raised my pistol and put three rounds through the iron railing. One round caught Harlan in the thigh, shattering his femur. He let out a high-pitched shriek and collapsed onto his back, his machine pistol clattering down the steel stairs.
I sprinted up the spiral staircase, stepping over the spent shell casings, my boots heavy against the iron treads.
Harlan was crawling backward along the catwalk, clutching his bleeding leg, dragging himself toward a rear fire escape.
"Mateo... wait!" Harlan gasped, his face slick with sweat, his eyes bugging out in absolute terror as I approached. "Listen to me! There’s fifty million dollars in a Swiss account! I'll give you the codes! I'll give you everything! Just let me leave!"
I stopped two feet from him, standing over him, the dark barrel of my 1911 pointed straight between his eyes.
"Where are the two refrigerated trucks, Victor?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
"In... in the lower garage!" Harlan sobbed, pointing his trembling finger toward the loading bay below. "The keys are in the ignition! The ventilation units are running! The girls are safe! I swear to God, none of them were harmed!"
I didn't lower the gun.
"You drugged a seven-year-old girl," I whispered. "You told your coroner to freeze her alive in a morgue drawer to cover up your dirt."
"It was Vance’s idea!" Harlan shrieked, backing his head against the brick wall. "Vance said it was cleaner than a bullet! Mateo, please! We're businessmen! We can settle this!"
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"I'm not a businessman tonight, Victor," I said, resting my thumb on the hammer of my pistol, pulling it back until it clicked into place. "Tonight, I'm just Elena Vasquez’s landlord."
BANG.
