Chapter 8 - THE JUDAS OF WABASH AVENUE
The Moretti logistics terminal on South Wabash Avenue sat surrounded by ten-foot security fences topped with razor wire.
Three dozen shipping containers were stacked like giant steel building blocks beneath the sodium-vapor floodlights.
It was four in the morning, and the industrial quarter of Chicago was entirely deserted.
Inside the private second-floor administration office, Salvatore Ramos was feverishly packing his desk.
He was a stocky man of forty-two, with slicked-back hair and expensive rings on his fingers.
Two leather duffel bags sat open on the mahogany desk, stuffed with stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills.
Beside the cash lay a forged Venezuelan passport and an encrypted hard drive loaded with Moretti shipping manifests.
Salvatore glanced nervously at the digital clock on the wall every few seconds.
Jonathan Mercer’s representatives had promised an offshore transfer of three million dollars once the train operation was completed.
Yet thirty minutes ago, all communication with Marcus Vale had gone completely dead.
The Bloomington terminal had reported no sign of Emily Carter.
Salvatore zipped the first duffel bag and threw the strap over his shoulder.
He reached for his coat on the coat rack, preparing to run for his private vehicle parked near the rear loading dock.
The heavy reinforced steel door of the office swung open without a sound.
Adrian Moretti walked into the room.
He wore his dark cashmere coat unbuttoned, his leather gloves black against the fluorescent light.
Behind him stood Dominic Vance, holding a combat shotgun resting diagonally across his chest.
Salvatore froze as if a bolt of lightning had struck the floor between his feet.
The duffel bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the carpet with a dull, heavy thud.
"Adrian..." Salvatore stammered, the color instantly draining from his face.
"You... you were supposed to be in St. Louis."
Adrian walked slowly toward the center of the office, his footsteps measured and terrifyingly calm.
He did not shout.
He did not draw a weapon.
He simply looked at the stacks of cash, the open passport, and his cousin's guilty face.
"I took the train to find quiet, Salvatore," Adrian said softly.
"Instead, I found corporate mercenaries carrying Mercer's payroll."
Salvatore took a frantic step backward until his spine struck the edge of the mahogany desk.
"Listen to me, Adrian, it's not what you think!"
"I was setting Mercer up!"
"I was taking his money to expand our freight lines!"
Adrian paused three feet away from him, his dark eyes void of any familial affection.
"Do not insult my intelligence with lies meant for fools."
"You sold passenger manifests from my private transit channel."
"You allowed Mercer’s hit squad to hunt a civilian on an interstate route."
"And you gave them access to Thomas Carter’s address in Ohio."
Salvatore began to shake, sweat pouring down his forehead despite the cool room.
"Mercer has the Department of Commerce in his pocket, Adrian!"
"He has federal contracts worth billions!"
"Our syndicate operates on old rules from thirty years ago."
"We run docks and warehouses while men like Mercer control the entire national infrastructure."
"He offered us a seat at the high table!"
Adrian stepped forward, his hand moving with blinding speed.
He seized Salvatore by the throat and drove him backward across the wide desk, shattering a glass water pitcher.
Salvatore choked, clawing at Adrian’s iron fingers as his head hung over the edge of the desk.
"You sold our family honor for digital scraps from a billionaire's table," Adrian whispered, his face inches from Salvatore’s.
"The Moretti name was built on blood, loyalty, and protection."
"We do not hunt women."
"We do not kill old men in their homes."
"And we do not break faith with our own blood."
"Please, Adrian..." Salvatore wheezed, his eyes bulging with terror.
"We're blood... Uncle Marco would never let you kill me..."
"Uncle Marco would have shot you himself," Adrian replied with terrifying calm.
Emily stepped into the doorway, flanked by Dominic Vance.
She looked at Salvatore Ramos with cold disdain, recognizing the type of moral cowardice that had poisoned Halcyon Holdings.
Adrian tightened his grip slightly, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
"Where is the unedited video, Salvatore?"
"The drive... on the desk..." Salvatore gasped, pointing a trembling finger toward the black hard drive.
"Mercer sent it to me to hold as insurance against his vice president."
"It has the original, unedited security footage from the hotel lounge."
"It also has Mercer's private offshore accounts and the bribe logs for the federal transit inspectors."
Adrian reached out with his left hand and picked up the heavy encrypted drive.
He slipped it into his inner coat pocket and released his grip on Salvatore’s throat.
Salvatore collapsed onto the desk, coughing and gasping for breath as he rubbed his bruised neck.
"Are you going to kill me?" Salvatore whispered, weeping openly.
Adrian looked down at him as if he were looking at an insect on the pavement.
"Death is too clean for a traitor."
"Dominic."
"Boss?" Dominic responded from the doorway.
"Strip him of his passport, his cash, and his vehicles."
"Call the United States Attorney’s office from a burner line."
"Inform them that Salvatore Ramos is waiting at the South Wabash terminal with full documentation of Halcyon's logistics bribes."
"Let him spend the next twenty-five years in a federal penitentiary explaining his ambition to a cell wall."
Salvatore screamed in horror, realizing that federal prison would be a living hell for an underworld turncoat.
"Adrian, no! Kill me! Don't hand me to the feds!"
Adrian did not look back as he turned toward the door.
May you like
"You wanted to do business with the federal system, Salvatore."
"Now you will belong to it."
