Chapter 6 - The Trap at the Hangar
Two hours later, the private aviation hangar at JFK Airport was bathed in the harsh, sterile glare of sodium-vapor lights.
A sleek, dark-blue Eurocopter touched down on the tarmac, kicking up a cloud of dust and exhaust before taxiing directly into Hangar 4. The heavy metal rolling doors began to descend automatically behind it, sealing the aircraft inside away from the biting wind of the airfield.
Inside the cabin, Vincent Moretti unbuckled his harness, grabbed his leather briefcase, and reached for the door handle.
“Good flight, Mr. Moretti,” the pilot said, turning around in his seat.
“Better than expected,” Vincent smirked, pushing the cabin door open and stepping down onto the concrete floor of the hangar.
He took three steps forward before he stopped dead in his tracks.
The hangar was dead silent. The overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then settled into a steady, glaring hum.
From the shadows behind the stacked crates of imported Italian marble and heavy machinery, six men stepped out into the open. They wore dark tactical gear, their faces obscured by ski masks, their hands holding silenced submachine guns pointed directly at Vincent’s chest.
At the center of them stood Marcus, lowering his weapon slightly, a cold, humorless grin stretching across his face.
“Going somewhere, Vince?” Marcus asked, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls.
Vincent’s face drained of color. He dropped his briefcase, his hands flying up instinctively. “Marcus! Wait—this is a misunderstanding! Dominic is my friend! We’ve been brothers for twenty years—”
“Dominic sends his regards,” Marcus interrupted coldly.
Before Vincent could reach for the concealed shoulder holster beneath his coat, two of the operatives crossed the concrete in a flash, slammed him face-first against the side of his own helicopter, and stripped his weapon away. They zip-tied his wrists behind his back so hard the plastic bit deep into his skin.
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“Don't kill me!” Vincent shrieked, panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade. “I have money! I have accounts in Zurich! I can give you fifty million dollars right now—just let me walk!”
“Save your breath for the Boss,” Marcus said, grabbing him by the collar of his expensive silk shirt and dragging him toward the back of an unmarked black Suburban waiting near the hangar doors. “He’s waiting for you at the estate.”
