Chapter 12 - Fire over Teterboro
Z
Rain poured in relentless sheets over Teterboro Airport, blurring the yellow runway lights into streaking smears of amber across the tarmac.
I stood inside the shadow of a fuel transport truck three hundred yards from Hangar 4, wearing a black rain jacket and night-vision goggles. Beside me were Marcus and four elite contractors I had hired from a private security firm in Virginia—men who had fought in Special Ops units across the Middle East.
Inside Hangar 4, through my thermal scope, I could see two luxury Gulfstream jets parked side-by-side. Around them, ten heavily armed men in dark tactical gear were unloading heavy wooden crates from a cargo transport.
In the center of the hangar stood Matteo Varghese.
He was taller than his photographs suggested, wearing a cashmere overcoat, sipping espresso from a porcelain cup while two guards held umbrellas over his head. He looked completely relaxed, as if he were attending a horse race rather than preparing to execute a mob war on foreign soil.
"Target confirmed," Marcus whispered into his radio mic beside me. "Varghese is in the open. We have six shooters on the perimeter, two on the roof balcony."
"What about the crates?" I asked.
"Thermal reads heavy metal and chemical signatures," Marcus replied. "They brought military-grade C4 explosives. They're planning to breach the Manhattan foundation building with demolition charges."
"Then let's give them a demonstration of local demolition," I said, pulling the remote detonator from my belt.
Ten minutes earlier, Marcus’s team had planted three magnetic breaching charges beneath the central fuel pipelines feeding Hangar 4’s private refueling station.
I flipped the safety switch on the detonator and pressed the trigger.
BOOM!
A blinding orange fireball erupted from the rear of the hangar, blowing the heavy corrugated steel doors off their hinges with a deafening roar. The shockwave shattered every window within a half-mile radius, sending a massive plume of black smoke billowing into the stormy night sky.
"GO! GO! GO!" I barked over the tactical comms.
We sprinted across the rain-slick tarmac, firing suppressed bursts into the panicked mercenaries who were stumbling out of the burning hangar. Muzzle flashes lit up the smoke as Varghese’s guards tried to organize a defensive perimeter.
I ducked behind the landing gear of a Gulfstream jet, firing three rapid shots into a gunman who was trying to raise an MP5 submachine gun. The bullets struck his center mass, dropping him instantly onto the concrete floor.
Through the dense smoke, I saw Varghese being ushered toward an armored SUV parked near the side exit by his top two bodyguards.
"Varghese is breaking for the south gate!" I yelled, reloading my magazine on the move.
I vaulted over a burning fuel barrel, pursuing them into the dark rain-drenched alley behind the hangar line.
One of Varghese’s bodyguards turned, pulling an assault rifle from under his coat. Before he could raise the barrel, I lunged forward, jamming my tactical blade into his shoulder joint, wrenching the weapon from his grip, and throwing him headfirst into the brick wall.
The second guard drew a pistol, but Marcus dropped him from fifty yards away with a single sniper round to the helmet.
Matteo Varghese froze beside his armored SUV. His porcelain cup was gone, his cashmere coat was soaked with rain and covered in soot, and his face was pale with shock. He slowly turned around, raising his gloved hands into the air as I stepped out of the shadow, my SIG Sauer pointed directly between his eyes.
"Daniel Hale," Varghese panted, his Italian accent thick with venom. "You're late. I expected you at the foundation building."
"You made a mistake coming to New York, Matteo," I said, stepping closer, the rain dripping from the brim of my tactical cap. "This city belongs to my family."
May you like
Varghese let out a forced, arrogant chuckle. "Your family? Your father was a traitor, your mother is worm food, and your grandfather is a corpse kept alive by machines! You have no family, Daniel! You're just a lapdog for Maria Russo!"
I pulled the trigger.
