Chapter 6 - The Ghost Train of Long Island and the Snipers in the Dark
The wind howling off the freezing waters of the Long Island Sound carried the sharp, biting scent of salt and decaying timber across the abandoned rail yards.
Rows of rusted, graffiti-covered freight cars sat idle on tracks half-buried beneath the heavy snowdrifts of the January blizzard.
In the center of the sprawling, desolate industrial lot stood the skeletal remains of the central transfer terminal—a towering cathedral of corrugated iron and shattered glass through which the wind whistled like a mourning choir.
An unbranded black SUV idled near the loading dock, its exhaust pipes pumping thick plumes of white vapor into the freezing night air.
Inside the vehicle, Victor Vance sat in the passenger seat, his breath fogging the interior glass as he adjusted the scope of a heavy-duty tactical rifle resting across his knees.
Beside him, two hired guns from the out-of-state syndicates watched the perimeter through infrared binoculars.
“He’s late,” one of the thugs muttered, his teeth chattering despite the truck's heater running at full blast.
“Alessandro Moretti is never late,” Victor replied, a thin, arrogant smile stretching across his lips.
“He’s cautious. He brought his tactical shadow, Arthur, halfway, then ditched him at the toll plaza. He’s walking the last mile on foot, just like I planned.”
Victor looked out the frost-covered window toward the dark, gaping entrance of the terminal warehouse.
“When he steps into the central bay, light him up,” Victor ordered, his eyes gleaming with psychotic ambition.
“With Moretti dead, the New York board will have no choice but to ratify my shipping restructuring plan. The docks will be mine.”
A hundred yards away, moving through the deep snowdrifts with the silent, predatory fluidity of a ghost, Alessandro Moretti didn't need infrared goggles to know where his enemies were hiding.
He had spent two decades navigating the violent underbelly of Chicago and New York; he knew every trick in Victor’s playbook.
Moretti dropped low behind the rusted chassis of an old boxcar, pulling his customized Sig Sauer from its holster and checking the suppressor with a quiet, practiced twist.
He hadn't come alone, despite Victor’s expectations.
Two hundred yards to his left, sliding through the shadows like twin specters, Arthur Vance and a four-man elite extraction unit were quietly flanking the loading dock, cutting off the enemy’s retreat routes one by one.
Moretti crept forward, his leather boots crunching silently against the frozen crust of snow.
He reached the threshold of the cavernous terminal warehouse, pausing in the deep shadows cast by a hanging industrial crane.
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“Victor!” Moretti’s voice rang out, carrying across the hollow expanse of the warehouse with a resonant, terrifying clarity.
“You wanted to talk about Maya Harper? You don't need a sniper rifle for that. Step out into the light.”
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