Chapter 4 - AMBUSH IN THE SLEEPER VESTIBULE
The words reverberated through Adrian Moretti’s skull like a muffled gunshot in a closed room.
A traitor inside the Moretti syndicate was an impossibility that had suddenly become a reality.
For twenty years, the Moretti family had operated on absolute, blood-bound fidelity.
If Mercer’s money had breached his inner circle, then Adrian’s presence on this night train was no accident.
"Who authorized the leak, Dominic?" Adrian asked, keeping his voice silky and completely level.
"I don't know the identity yet," Dominic replied frantically.
"I only intercepted an encrypted payment routed through our South Side transit accounts twenty minutes ago."
"They paid five hundred thousand dollars for the real-time manifest of every passenger boarding out of Union Station tonight."
"They weren't just hunting Emily Carter, Adrian."
"They knew you took this train alone."
"Hang up the phone and secure your flank," Adrian ordered, ending the transmission instantly.
He pocketed the device and stood up, towering over the aisle.
"Take your bag," Adrian said to Emily, his voice leaving no room for discussion.
"Where are we going?" she asked, clutching her purse to her chest.
"We are leaving the general seating car."
"I booked a private sleeper compartment in carriage two under a commercial alias."
"Move quickly, keep your eyes on the carpet, and do not look back."
Emily rose swiftly, following his broad frame as he navigated the swaying aisle toward the exit doors.
As they crossed the metal threshold connecting coach car four to the adjoining sleeper carriage, the heavy pneumatic door hissed shut behind them.
The temperature in the accordion-style vestibule dropped below freezing instantly.
The roar of the steel wheels grinding against the icy rails was deafening.
Before Adrian could enter the security code on the brass handle of carriage two, the door behind them slid open again.
It was Dean, the stockier of the two men who had accompanied Marcus Vale.
He had removed his overcoat.
In his gloved right hand, he held a heavy steel tactical baton, flicked open to its full twenty-six-inch length.
In his left hand, he held a silenced pneumatic dart injector used for discreet biological extractions.
"Mr. Moretti," Dean shouted over the roar of the rushing wind.
"Our employer has a substantial business proposition for your family."
"Leave the girl in this vestibule, and two million dollars will clear your shell accounts in Zurich before sunrise."
Adrian slowly turned his back to the sleeper door, placing Emily entirely behind his massive physical frame.
He did not look surprised, nor did he look alarmed.
"You know my surname," Adrian stated calmly.
"Everyone in Midwest transport knows who runs the Chicago freight lines," Dean replied, taking a balanced, forward step on the rocking metal plates.
"Mercer respects your organization."
"He just needs this compliance parasite silenced before the federal trial resumes on Tuesday."
"Step aside, Mr. Moretti."
"This girl is not worth a war between Halcyon and your board."
Emily’s hand gripped the back of Adrian’s suit jacket, her knuckles white with terror.
"Mr. Moretti," she whispered, realizing for the first time who was standing in front of her.
She had heard the whispered rumors in the federal prosecutor’s office about the Moretti crime family.
She was standing behind a man feared across five states by governors and kingpins alike.
Adrian did not turn to look at her.
"You made three critical errors tonight, Dean," Adrian said in a voice that cut cleanly through the howling gale.
Dean smirked, shifting the steel baton between his fingers.
"And what would those be?"
"First, you assumed my family’s loyalty could be purchased with Jonathan Mercer’s dirty tech money."
"Second, you assumed I would permit an unarmed woman under my protection to be hauled away like cargo."
"And third?" Dean challenged, stepping within striking distance.
"You assumed I would let you finish that sentence."
Adrian exploded forward with blinding, brutal efficiency.
Before Dean could swing the steel baton, Adrian’s left palm struck Dean’s chin with the force of a hydraulic piston.
The blow snapped Dean’s head backward against the vibrating metal wall of the vestibule.
Dean gasped, his eyes rolling back as he attempted to raise the chemical injector.
Adrian caught Dean’s left wrist in an iron grip, twisting the joint violently until the bone cracked with a sickening snap.
The pneumatic injector clattered harmlessly against the corrugated steel floor.
Adrian drove his right knee deep into Dean’s solar plexus, driving every drop of air from the operative’s lungs.
Dean collapsed to his knees, gasping for oxygen, his baton sliding across the icy floor plates.
Adrian leaned down, gripping the lapel of Dean's tactical vest, hoisting him upward by the collar until their faces were inches apart.
"Who inside my organization gave you the passenger log?" Adrian whispered directly into Dean’s ear.
Dean spit blood onto the floor, his face contorted in agony.
"Go... go to hell, Moretti."
Adrian tightened his grip, pressing his thumb hard against the carotid artery in Dean's neck.
"The next stop is Bloomington," Adrian whispered, his eyes void of all human mercy.
"If you do not give me a name, I will open the emergency exterior latch and drop you under the steel wheels at seventy miles an hour."
Dean’s eyes widened with pure, primal dread as he felt the freezing slipstream pouring through the rubber door seals.
He realized instantly that Adrian Moretti did not make empty threats.
"Ramos!" Dean gasped out, clutching desperately at Adrian’s forearms.
May you like
"Salvatore Ramos!"
"He took the down payment this morning!"
