Chapter 5 - The First Strike
Midnight over the East River was cloaked in a thick, rolling fog that swallowed the industrial skyline of Queens.
The sprawling meatpacking plant looked like a ghost facility from the outside—dark windows, rusted corrugated steel walls, and a high chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. But thermal imaging from our reconnaissance drone painted a very different picture: a dozen armed guards patrolling the perimeter, heavy surveillance cameras sweeping the loading docks, and twenty million dollars worth of illegal narcotics stacked inside the cold storage lockers.
This was Victor Harlan’s primary distribution hub.
My black SUV idled a quarter-mile down the deserted access road. In the back seat, Bruno sat alert, his muscles coiled like springs, his dark eyes fixed on the windshield. He knew what was coming. He could smell the gunpowder we had loaded into our tactical vests.
“Remember the parameters,” I said, turning to look at the six elite enforcers packed into the vehicle with me. “Harlan’s men are dead meat. But I want the computers untouched. I want the ledger books intact. I want every single name on those shipping manifests so we can trace every corrupt official in this city.”
“Understood, Boss,” Daniel said, racking the slide of his suppressed submachine gun.
“Let’s move,” I ordered.
We deployed with silent, deadly precision. Daniel and Tony scaled the back fence in seconds, neutralizing the two perimeter guards before they could even reach their radios. The security cameras were blinded by a localized EMP device before the feed could hit Harlan’s central monitoring station in Brooklyn.
I walked through the reinforced side door of the plant with Bruno trotting silently at my left heel.
The air inside was freezing, smelling of stale blood, industrial sanitizer, and raw chemicals.
“Clear,” Tony’s voice crackled quietly through our encrypted earpieces. “First-floor staging area is secure. Four hostiles neutralized.”
“Keep pushing toward the main office,” I instructed, stepping over a pallet stacked with crates marked as frozen poultry—though our intel knew damn well the boxes contained synthetic opioids smuggled in from overseas.
Suddenly, the heavy iron doors at the far end of the warehouse blew open.
Six armed enforcers in tactical gear rushed into the room, raising their assault rifles the moment they spotted us.
“Ambush!” someone yelled.
Before their fingers could squeeze the triggers, Bruno exploded into action.
He didn't bark. He didn't hesitate. One hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle launched across the concrete floor like a furry missile, slamming directly into the chest of the lead gunman. The man shrieked as the massive mastiff’s jaws clamped around his forearm, snapping the assault rifle away like a twig and sending him crashing hard into a stack of metal crates.
The remaining five guards opened fire, bullets pinging wildly off the steel pillars and concrete walls.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My enforcers returned fire with clinical, ruthless efficiency. Two of Harlan’s men dropped instantly, clutching their shoulders and legs. The other three tried to scramble back toward the exit, but Daniel and Tony cut off their escape route, dropping them with precision leg shots.
I walked calmly through the crossfire, stepping past a groaning mercenary as Bruno trotted back to my side, panting slightly, a smear of engine grease on his muzzle.
“Good dog,” I murmured, scratching behind his ears.
We reached the main second-floor office. The heavy oak door was locked, but a single well-placed kick from Daniel splintered the frame, sending the door flying inward.
Inside, a terrified plant manager was frantically trying to feed a thick stack of paper ledgers into a heavy-duty industrial shredder.
Tony lunged across the room, grabbing the man by the collar and yanking him away from the machine just as the shredder chewed up the first few pages.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Tony chided, pressing the barrel of his pistol gently against the manager’s trembling chin. “That paperwork belongs to Mr. Moretti now. Be polite.”
The manager shook like a leaf, staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes. “Please… please don’t kill me. I’m just an employee! I didn't know about the girl! I swear!”
“I don’t care about you,” I said, walking over to the desk and picking up the remaining ledgers, along with a master hard drive sitting plugged into the desktop computer. “Tell Victor Harlan something for me when he calls.”
May you like
The manager nodded frantically. “What… what should I say?”
“Tell him his meatpacking plant is closed for renovations,” I said, turning toward the door. “And tell him I’m coming for his Brooklyn headquarters next.”
