Chapter 3 - THE BROOKLYN TRAP
The high-performance engine of Nathan’s sports car screamed down the rain-slicked pavement of the Taconic State Parkway. Every shadow cast by the towering pines along the highway looked like a pursuit vehicle; every headlight in his rearview mirror made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Nathan kept one hand gripped white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel while the other frantically worked the encrypted satellite phone mounted on the dashboard.
"Pick up, Ivan. Pick up, you Russian bastard," Nathan muttered under his breath, his eyes darting continuously toward the dark highway behind him.
After four agonizing rings, the line connected with a dull click, followed by the heavy, low rumble of Ivan Sokolov’s voice.
"You are calling late, Nathan," Ivan said, the background noise of a bustling, low-lit lounge humming over the speaker. "The Atlantic City shipments were supposed to be cleared two hours ago. My men are waiting at the docks."
"The plan is compromised, Ivan!" Nathan shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "Dominic came back early. He found the maid in the sub-basement. He knows about the keys, he knows about the offshore ledger—he knows everything!"
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the line. For five endless seconds, only the static of the satellite signal filled the car.
"And Claire?" Ivan asked smoothly.
"Dominic’s guards took her," Nathan gasped, taking a sharp turn onto the Interstate ramp toward New York City. "She panicked. She tried to throw me under the bus, but I managed to buy time and get out of the estate. I’m heading straight to your safehouse in Greenpoint. Have your heavy hitmen ready, Ivan. We need to hit Dominic’s Manhattan strongholds tonight before he consolidates his security!"
"I see," Ivan said, his tone shockingly calm, almost conversational. "You are bringing much heat to Brooklyn, my friend."
"I’m bringing you the access codes to the entire Hudson Valley syndicate!" Nathan snapped, his confidence returning as the skyline of Manhattan appeared through the heavy sheets of rain in the distance. "Without me, you’ll never touch Dominic’s territory! Just have the front gates open at the warehouse!"
"The gates are always open for family," Ivan replied quietly. "Drive safe, Nathan."
The line disconnected.
Nathan let out a long, ragged exhale, tossing the satellite phone onto the passenger seat. He smoothed back his slicked hair, adjusting his collar in the rearview mirror. He was still Nathan Cross. He had built half this empire. Dominic was soft—weakened by sentimentality, dragged down by a housemaid and a child. By sunrise, with Sokolov’s two hundred armed foot soldiers behind him, Nathan would take what was rightfully his.
Forty minutes later, the sleek black sports car turned off the main avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, rumbling over cobble-paved side streets toward an abandoned ship-repair warehouse near the East River.
The massive corrugated steel gates of the industrial compound sat partially open, a single yellow floodlight illuminating the rain swirling through the cold night air.
Nathan pulled his car into the cavernous concrete interior, the tires screeching softly against the damp floor. He cut the engine, grabbed his leather duffel bag containing his emergency passports and bearer bonds, and stepped out into the dark, echoing space.
"Ivan!" Nathan called out, his voice bouncing off the high steel rafters. "I'm here! Let's get the security detail moving!"
A single spotlight snapped on from the catwalk above, blinding Nathan instantly.
He threw his arm up to shield his eyes, his hand dropping instinctually toward the sidearm holstered beneath his armpit. "Ivan? What the hell is this?"
From the shadows surrounding the concrete floor, heavy footsteps echoed. A dozen men stepped into the light—tall, broad-shouldered enforcers dressed in dark tactical gear, carrying automatic rifles.
At the center of the group stood Ivan Sokolov, wearing a long fur-collared coat, a thick cigar unlit between his fingers. Beside him walked Marcus, Dominic’s senior guard, holding a heavy iron wrench in his gloved hand.
Nathan froze, his blood running colder than the East River wind. "Marcus? What... what are you doing here?"
Ivan stepped forward, taking the cigar from his mouth and looking at Nathan with a mixture of amusement and pity. "You should have checked the Atlantic City meeting logs more carefully, Nathan."
"What are you talking about?" Nathan stammered, stepping backward until his spine hit the hood of his car. "We had a deal, Ivan! Fifty-fifty on the New Jersey docks!"
"We had a proposal," Ivan corrected coldly. "And then two nights ago in Atlantic City, Dominic Vale walked into my private lounge alone. No guards. No guns. He laid your forged financial documents on my table, along with a certified check drawn from his personal reserve for ten million dollars."
Ivan took a step closer, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Dominic told me that a brother who betrays his own boss will eventually betray his allies. He offered me a permanent, peaceful trade alliance across all East Coast ports in exchange for one simple favor."
Nathan’s jaw worked silently, but no sound came out. He looked wildly between Ivan and Marcus, his hands shaking violently as he realized the trap he had driven straight into.
"He asked me to welcome you when you arrived," Ivan said softly.
Marcus stepped forward, his massive frame blocking the only exit. "Boss said to remind you, Nathan... your five minutes were up three hours ago."
"Wait! Please!" Nathan shrieked, reaching franticly for his gun.
Before his fingers could touch the grip, two Russian guards lunged forward, slamming Nathan face-first onto the hood of his own car. The leather duffel bag spilled open, scattering useless passports and paper bonds across the blood-stained concrete.
Marcus pulled a heavy pair of steel transport cuffs from his belt, ratcheting them tight around Nathan’s wrists until the metal bit into the bone.
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"Dominic wants him back at the estate?" Ivan asked, lighting his cigar with a gold lighter.
"No," Marcus replied, pulling a heavy black canvas hood over Nathan’s head, muffling his desperate, weeping pleas. "The Boss said the estate is a home now. We don't bring trash into the house."
