Chapter 4 - Striking the Line
At three o'clock the following morning, the rain was coming down in sheets over Portland's industrial district.
A heavy black delivery van pulled up to the rear entrance of an abandoned auto body shop near the river—one of Vanguard's primary distribution hubs. Inside, eight men were busy packing synthetic narcotics into crate containers marked as engine parts.
I stood on the roof of the adjacent building, water dripping from the brim of my hat, flanked by Marco and six of my best tactical operatives.
"Vance isn't here, Boss," Marco reported through his ear piece, lowering his night-vision binoculars. "Just his local distribution crew. Twelve men, light armor, automatic weapons."
"Vance will come once the money stops flowing," I said into my radio. "Take out the guards silently. We destroy the product, we secure the ledgers, and we leave Vanguard a message he can't ignore."
"Understood."
We moved like shadows. Marco's team breached the side doors with surgical precision, utilizing suppressed sidearms. Within ninety seconds, the outer perimeter guards were neutralized without a single shot alerting the main floor.
I descended the metal fire escape, stepping through the shattered side window into the main office overlooking the workshop floor.
Below us, five men were sitting around a table counting stacks of rubber-banded cash. In the center of the table lay a dark leather logbook—the master manifest detailing every house, every delivery, and every buyer Vance operated in the tri-county area.
I stepped out onto the iron catwalk above them, racking the slide of my custom weapon.
The metallic sound echoed through the high-ceilinged warehouse like a thunderclap. The five men below froze, their hands flying toward their holsters.
"I wouldn't," I said, my voice carrying over the hum of the rain beating against the corrugated tin roof.
Marco's team stepped out onto the surrounding walkways, their laser sights painting red dots across the chest of every man below.
The lead distributor, a man named Miller with a jagged tattoo running up his neck, raised his hands slowly. "Moretti? What the hell is this? You're breaking the treaty! Vanguard owns this district!"
"Vanguard lost his rights to this district the moment he brought children into his business," I said, stepping down the iron stairs toward them.
Miller looked confused. "Children? What the hell are you talking about? We're running gear here, Moretti!"
I walked straight up to Miller, seized him by the collar of his jacket, and slammed his head into the wooden table, shattering the glass coffee cup beside him.
"Gregory Vance," I growled, bringing my face inches from his. "Where is he?"
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Miller sputtered, blood dripping from his nose onto the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "He's... he's at the docks! Pier 14! They're receiving a shipment from Vancouver at dawn!"
I pulled Miller up, looking into his terrified eyes. "Tell Vance that Dominic Moretti is coming for him. And tell him to bring every man he has."
