Chapter 3 - The Brooklyn Meatpacker
The rain poured heavily over the industrial docks of Red Hook, Brooklyn. Thunder rumbled across the dark waters of the bay as a fleet of four black, armored SUVs pulled into an abandoned meatpacking plant near the pier.
Inside the lead vehicle, Adrian checked the magazine of his suppressed SIG Sauer pistol, sliding it smoothly into his shoulder holster. Beside him, Dominic verified the tactical gear of twelve heavily armed men.
"Falcone’s scouts are posted on the roof," Dominic reported, pointing to a tablet screen showing thermal camera feeds from a surveillance drone hovering above the building. "Heat signatures show four men inside the main office on the second floor. One small signature is sitting on a chair in the corner—that’s Nicky."
"No civilian casualties," Adrian commanded, his voice cold and precise. "Falcone’s men die. The boy comes home untouched. If anyone discharges a weapon near that child, I’ll skin them myself."
"Understood, Boss."
At 2:15 AM, the storm provided perfect cover. Adrian’s strike team breached the rear entry doors using silent hydraulic cutters. They moved through the hanging rows of frozen cattle like ghosts, their night-vision goggles illuminating the dark corridors in shades of vivid green.
Two guards standing near the freight elevator didn't even have time to reach for their weapons before two quiet thwip-thwip sounds echoed through the hall. Both men dropped instantly to the concrete floor.
Adrian led the team up the metal stairs toward the second-floor office. Through the frosted glass window, he could hear rough laughter and the smell of cheap cigars.
"Falcone’s nephew, Marco, is running the shift," Dominic whispered.
Adrian didn't wait for a formal breaching order. He kicked the heavy wooden door off its hinges with a thunderous crash.
The door splintered inward, striking the guard nearest to it. Before the remaining three men could react, Adrian’s team flooded the room, weapon lights blinding the room in stark white glare.
"Don't move!" Dominic barked.
Marco Falcone, a greasy man in his late thirties with flashy gold chains, lunged for a shotgun sitting on the desk. Adrian fired two quick rounds, striking Marco precisely in both kneecaps.
Marco screamed, collapsing onto the blood-spattered linoleum floor, clutching his shattered legs.
The other two guards threw their hands up immediately, dropping their pistols to the ground.
In the corner of the room, tied to a wooden chair with thick duct tape over his mouth, was a six-year-old boy with tear-stained cheeks.
Adrian holstered his pistol and rushed over to the child. He pulled out a combat knife, slicing through the ropes with practiced ease, and gently peeled the tape from the boy’s lips.
"Nicky?" Adrian asked gently.
The boy sobbed, throwing his small arms around Adrian’s neck. "Are you a good guy? Did my grandpa send you?"
Adrian wrapped his dark coat around the shivering child, lifting him into his arms. "Yes, Nicky. Your grandpa sent me. You're safe now."
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He carried the boy out of the office, stopping beside Marco, who was writhing in pain on the floor. Adrian looked down at the bleeding man with supreme contempt.
"Tell your uncle Sal that he made a fatal mistake," Adrian said calmly. "He brought children into a war that belonged to men. Tell him to enjoy the sunrise... because it will be the last one he ever sees."
