Chapter 4 - The Meatpacking Hunt
The industrial sector bordering the Brooklyn Navy Yard was wrapped in heavy sea fog by two in the afternoon.
Rusting warehouses, abandoned dry docks, and dilapidated machine shops lined the inlet.
It was territory that nominally belonged to nobody.
A twilight zone where contraband moved from cargo vessels into unregistered box trucks under cover of low tide.
Damian sat in the back of the Suburban, watching three thermal imaging screens mounted to the divider console.
On the screen, an abandoned poultry packing plant two hundred yards ahead glowed with orange and yellow silhouettes.
Four armed guards on the perimeter.
Two snipers positioned on the catwalk above the loading bay.
Inside the central office, three more heat signatures were huddled around an iron table.
"Declan’s cousin, Rory Walsh, is running the floor," Leo said, holding a tactical radio headset to his ear.
"Our surveillance confirms two black vans entered the rear compound at three in the morning."
"The same vans that bypassed the Cobble Hill traffic grid."
"Is Khloe inside?" Damian’s voice was stripped of all human cadence.
"Thermal shows one signature tied to an iron support beam in the basement cold storage," Leo said quietly.
"Pulse rate is elevated, but she’s breathing."
"She’s alive, boss."
Damian felt a sudden, agonizing expansion in his chest.
She was breathing.
For six hours, he had walked through a nightmare where her eyes were already glass and her skin was already stone.
She was breathing.
That was all he needed.
"No negotiations," Damian said.
He reached beside his seat and pulled a suppressed custom 9mm sidearm from the lockbox.
He racked the slide with a clean, metallic snap.
"Take the snipers first."
"Breach the loading dock with the ram."
"I want Rory Walsh alive for three minutes."
"The rest are garbage."
Leo tapped the driver’s shoulder.
The armored SUV lunged forward into the rain.
The steel perimeter gates of the meatpacking plant buckled instantly under four tons of reinforced steel and bull bars.
The sound of shattering chain-link fence echoed across the misty canal like artillery fire.
Before the guards in the yard could raise their automatic carbines, suppressed fire from the Suburban’s roof-mounted ports eliminated them.
Two thuds against the wet gravel.
Then the snipers on the catwalk tumbled over the rusted railing, their rifles clattering against the concrete apron.
Damian kicked his passenger door open before the vehicle had completely stopped.
He moved with terrifying, predatory grace.
He did not run.
He did not seek cover.
He walked through the driving rain, raising his weapon with absolute precision.
A guard emerged from behind a stack of shipping pallets, raising an Uzi.
Damian fired twice through the man’s center mass without breaking his stride.
The man collapsed backward into a puddle of crimson-slicked water.
Inside the facility, the air was rank with ammonia, rotting tallow, and damp concrete.
Gunfire erupted from the upper office.
Rory Walsh’s men were shooting blind through the drywall, panicked by the speed and brutality of the assault.
Leo and four tactical operatives moved in an inverted V-formation, methodically clearing the rooms with flashbangs and controlled bursts.
Screams tore through the industrial space.
Smoke from the discharging powder mixed with the cold mist.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped.
Damian walked into the central sorting room.
Rory Walsh was crawling across the blood-slicked tile floor toward an exit chute.
His right leg was shattered at the knee.
He was coughing red foam, clutching his torn chest.
Damian walked up behind him and planted his boot firmly on the center of Rory’s back.
The weight pinned the Irishman to the concrete like an insect on a board.
"Where is she, Rory?" Damian asked, looking down at the back of the man’s head.
Rory laughed, a wet, choking gurgle.
"You're too late, Russo... Declan already took the bird."
"We just kept her here... to clean her up... to make sure she was pretty for the camera."
Damian pressed his heel down.
The sound of cracking ribs was distinct above the hum of the overhead cooling fans.
Rory shrieked, clawing at the filthy tile.
"Where did he take her?"
"The... the old sugar refinery... in Greenpoint," Rory gasped, his face pressed into his own blood.
"The basement... under the boiler room."
"Declan’s got the whole place wired... he wants you to come for her, you bastard!"
"He wants you in the box!"
Damian removed his boot.
He looked down at Rory for a single second.
"Thank you."
Damian raised his sidearm and pulled the trigger.
He turned back toward the stairs leading down into the plant’s basement storage.
"Leo, sweep the cellar."
"Make sure this wasn't a decoy."
Damian descended the iron steps three at a time.
The cold storage facility was cavernous, filled with hanging stainless-steel meat hooks that clinked together in the draft.
In the far corner, beside an overturned industrial scale, lay an empty wooden chair.
Duct tape, shredded and stained with blood, hung from the armrests.
On the concrete floor beneath the chair lay a small, shattered object.
Damian walked toward it, his boots clicking rhythmically in the dark.
He knelt down.
It was the vintage Patek Philippe watch.
The sapphire crystal was cracked.
The delicate gold mesh strap was snapped in half.
And dried across the cream-colored enamel dial was a single, perfect fingerprint in dark red blood.
Damian picked up the broken timepiece.
He pressed the cold metal against his lips.
May you like
"Greenpoint," Damian whispered into the dark.
"Bring the entire organization."
