Chapter 7 - The Rail Yard Ambush
The rain turned into a torrential downpour as three black SUVs cut their headlights and coasted into the rusted industrial yard flanking the freight tracks. The facility belonged to Romano Logistics, a shell company Corrado had operated independently for over a decade.
Steam hissed from cracked ground pipes, mixing with the fog that drifted off the nearby river. Damian moved through the shadows with lethal precision, backed by six of his most experienced soldiers.
Through the cracked industrial windows of the main warehouse, a single halogen work light cut through the gloom. Inside, voices echoed over the patter of rain against the corrugated roof.
"The old man won't last until dawn anyway, Marco," a gravelly voice said. "Why don't we just dump him in the incinerator and tell Corrado the heart finally gave out?"
"Because Corrado wants his signature on the offshore transfers first, idiot," snapped a second voice, accented and harsh. "Without the old bastard's thumbprint on the Swiss release forms, sixty million dollars stays locked in Zurich forever. Keep the adrenaline running into his line."
Damian reached the side access door. He didn't bother picking the lock. He kicked the latch with the full force of his combat boot, shattering the rusted frame, and entered the facility firing.
The first guard, armed with a pump-action shotgun, collapsed before his weapon could clear his waist. Luca rounded the flank, his submachine gun chattering in disciplined, three-round bursts, suppressing two gunmen stationed behind a stack of shipping pallets.
Marco Varga scrambled from behind a metal desk, his gold teeth bared in a snarl, raising a heavy revolver.
Damian did not take cover. He advanced through the gunsmoke, firing two rounds in rapid succession. The first shattered Marco’s right shoulder, spinning him violently; the second took him through the knee, dropping him screaming onto the oil-stained concrete.
The surviving guards threw down their weapons, hands raised in the blinding glare of the halogen lamps.
Damian stepped past the bleeding enforcer, his eyes fixed on the far corner of the warehouse.
May you like
There, strapped to an old transport gurney beneath a threadbare blanket, lay an emaciated figure hooked to an improvised saline drip.
***
