Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Crosshairs
The concussive crack of the sniper fire echoed through the hollow cathedral of the warehouse like rolling thunder. Mason and Lorenzo slammed behind an overturned steel pallet jack as a second round struck the floor, ricocheting with a violent scream of torn lead.
"Cover the south exit!" Mason roared into his tactical collar mic. "We’ve got a shooter on the catwalk, elevated position! Suppressed rifle, 7.62!"
Lorenzo didn't flinch. The fog of shock that had gripped him since Emma’s whisper had instantly burned away, replaced by the lethal, calculating clarity that had made him the head of the DeLuca family at twenty-nine. He reached inside Mason’s coat, drew the backup Glock 19 from the shoulder rig without asking, and racked the slide with one smooth motion.
"You don't engage," Mason snapped, drawing his primary weapon. "You're the target!"
"I'm not the target," Lorenzo replied, his voice dead, terrifyingly cold. "If they wanted me dead, they would have dropped me while I was kneeling in the dirt smelling dog hair. They're here to clean this nest. They're here to burn whatever she left behind."
A third round pierced the sheet metal just above their heads. Lorenzo leaned out, his eyes calculating angles through the gloom. The sodium streetlights from the rail tracks illuminated the metal catwalk suspended from the central roof beams. A shadow was moving fast—wearing dark athletic gear, carrying a short-barreled carbine, heading for the industrial fire escape on the eastern wall.
"Flank him," Lorenzo commanded the two perimeter guards who had breached the interior doors. "Alive. I want to know who signed his paycheck."
The two men moved with military precision, weapon lights cutting through the warehouse gloom. Lorenzo broke from behind the pallet jack, ignoring Mason’s shouted curse, his long strides eating the distance toward the freight elevator shaft.
Above, the shooter realized his angle had collapsed. He fired three rapid suppression shots into the dirt, leaped over a rusted steel rail, and dropped ten feet onto the roof of an empty boxcar parked inside the service bay.
The metal groaned under his boots. The shooter sprinted toward the open exterior door leading back into the rainy maze of the rail yard.
Lorenzo stepped out of the shadow of the boxcar directly into his path.
The shooter brought his carbine up, but Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He raised the Glock and fired two rounds into the man’s right shoulder and collarbone.
The impact spun the gunman around. His carbine clattered against the damp gravel, and he hit the wet ground with a wet, ragged cry of agony.
Lorenzo stepped forward, his boot planting firmly on the man's throat before he could reach for the sidearm on his tactical belt. Lorenzo pushed down, just enough to restrict the trachea, staring down at the gasping face beneath the wet nylon mask.
"Take it off," Lorenzo said.
Mason caught up, his weapon trained on the man's head, and violently ripped the balaclava away.
The face underneath was bruised, pale, with a jagged scar through the right eyebrow. Mid-thirties. European features. Cold, dead eyes that were now widening in genuine horror as they recognized the man stepping on his windpipe.
"Tadek," Mason muttered, his gun trembling with disgust. "He works the docks out of Newark. Subcontractor for maritime security."
"Who pays you, Tadek?" Lorenzo’s tone was almost conversational, but his heel pressed a fraction of an inch deeper. Cartilage clicked warningly.
"G-go to hell, DeLuca," the man sputtered, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips from the shoulder wound. "She’s dead anyway. You buried her. You're chasing a ghost..."
"My wife is alive," Lorenzo whispered, leaning down until his eyes were inches from the killer’s face. "And you are currently five seconds away from me peeling your fingernails off one by one in the trunk of my car to find out who told you she was hiding here."
"I don't know names!" Tadek gasped, panic finally breaking through his mercenary bravado. "I swear to God! A dead drop! We got an alert this morning... a burner ping with a photograph of the kid and the maid outside the bakery! The text said: *'Target was seen. Clean the district before DeLuca wakes up.'*"
Lorenzo’s heart felt like it stopped.
*A photograph of Emma and Sophia.*
"Who sent the message?" Lorenzo demanded.
"Encrypted server... routed through North Pier Logistics!" Tadek sobbed, clutching his shattered shoulder. "That’s all I know! It uses an executive clearance code! Tier One! Only three people in your company have that key!"
Lorenzo stood up slowly.
Tier One.
There were only three people who possessed Tier One executive codes in the DeLuca conglomerate.
Lorenzo himself.
His head of logistics, Marcus Gray, who had been in a wheelchair in a rehab facility in Zurich for six months following a stroke.
And Vincent Moreau.
Before Lorenzo could speak, the distant wail of sirens cut through the mist. Detective Ortiz was arriving with the city forensics team.
Mason looked at Lorenzo, his face pale under the sodium light. "Lorenzo... what do we do with him?"
Lorenzo looked at the blood on the gravel. He handed the Glock back to Mason, his face as blank and merciless as carved marble.
"Hand him to Ortiz. Let the state charge him with attempted murder. But take his phone. And Mason?"
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call Vincent. Tell him I need him at the townhouse in sixty minutes for an emergency board briefing. Tell him we have reason to believe someone is trying to hijack our shipping manifests at North Pier."
"Lorenzo," Mason warned, catching his arm. "If Vincent orchestrated the crash... if he has people inside our house... you can't just face him alone."
Lorenzo gently pulled his arm from Mason’s grasp.
May you like
"I won't be alone," Lorenzo whispered, looking back at the crumbling mortar where *7 1 4 B* was etched into the dark. "My wife is waiting for me to figure it out."
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