Chapter 10 - Shadows Over Sheepshead Bay
Z
The stench of rotting fish, diesel fuel, and salt spray hung heavy over the Sheepshead Bay packing plant. It was past 1:00 AM, and the fog rolling off the Atlantic was so dense that the harbor lights looked like dim, orange smudges in the gloom.
Lorenzo’s convoy of four black sedans pulled into the dark alleyway two blocks from the pier. Twenty of Lorenzo’s best men—professionals dressed in rain jackets and armed with suppressed submachine guns—poured out of the vehicles, moving through the shadows like ghost figures.
I stepped out of the lead car, pulling the collar of my wool coat up against the damp wind. Inside my right coat pocket, my hand rested against the grip of the Sig Sauer. In my left pocket, my fingers brushed against the soft, fabric head of Miss Rose.
Lorenzo joined me beside a rusted shipping container. "My scouts say there are at least fifteen Bratva mercenaries inside the plant. High-caliber weapons, night-vision gear. Kazakhov isn't taking any chances. Adrian is in the upper office overlooking the docks."
"Kazakhov dies first," I said quietly. "If the commander falls, the mercenaries will retreat. They aren't dying for Adrian's personal grudge."
"And Adrian?" Lorenzo asked.
"Adrian belongs to me."
We moved in total silence. Lorenzo’s men cut through the chain-link perimeter fence with hydraulic clippers. We slipped inside the dark perimeter of the fish packing facility, stepping over discarded wooden crates and tangled fishing nets.
The main building was a massive, concrete structure with high, narrow windows near the roof. Light glowed faintly from the second-floor office. Through the grimy glass, I could see the silhouette of a man pacing back and forth, holding a glass of scotch.
Adrian.
Two Russian guards wearing heavy tactical vests were patrolling the loading dock below, smoking cigarettes beneath a buzzing halogen light. Their laughter carried across the wet concrete.
I signaled to Lorenzo’s lead lieutenant, a quiet killer named Russo. Russo raised his suppressed rifle, fired two rapid shots, and both guards collapsed to the pavement without making a sound. Their cigarettes hissed softly as they landed in the puddles.
"Move in," I whispered.
We breached the side entrance of the packing plant. The interior was vast, dark, and freezing cold, filled with rusted conveyor belts, massive steel ice hoppers, and the lingering odor of dead catch.
Suddenly, a voice echoed over the facility's internal loudspeaker system—a harsh, heavily accented Russian voice.
"You are late, Dominic Moretti!"
The loud speaker crackled with static.
"We knew Lorenzo Rossi’s cars left Philadelphia two hours ago! Did you really think we wouldn't notice a convoy moving across the state line?"
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Instantly, industrial floodlights mounted along the ceiling snapped on, blinding us with brilliant, white light.
Gunfire erupted from the high catwalks above.
