Chapter 12 - The Steel Skies of Gary
The industrial wasteland of northwest Indiana smelled of sulfur, burning coke, and stagnant marsh water.
Through the rain-streaked windshield of the armored SUV, the glowing smokestacks of Gary’s defunct steel mills loomed like blackened ribs against a leaden sky.
It was past three in the morning.
The storm had chased them down the southern curve of Lake Michigan, battering the highway with vicious crosswinds.
In the rear passenger seat, Sophie held Mateo tightly in the tactical wrap strapped across her torso.
The baby had finally drifted off to sleep again, exhausted by the terror of the home invasion, his head resting peacefully against Sophie’s collarbone.
Sophie held a sleek silver USB drive between her thumb and forefinger.
An hour earlier, Marco had broken the glass of a private bank branch in Evanston, using Dominic’s emergency corporate codes to retrieve Clara’s final safeguard from the subterranean safety vaults.
It contained six years of money laundering records, tax evasion schemes, and illegal maritime arms manifests tying Carlo Castellano directly to federal indictments in New York.
It was the execution order for the entire Castellano dynasty.
In the driver’s seat, Marco adjusted his tactical earpiece, his face bathed in the dim green glow of the dashboard instruments.
“Boss is already inside the perimeter,” Marco reported in a low, gravelly voice.
“He went in through the south maintenance gate with four men.”
“Castellano has fifteen private contractors guarding Hangar 9.”
“A Gulfstream jet has its engines idling on the tarmac.”
“If that plane takes off, Castellano disappears to a non-extradition sanctuary in Panama.”
“Dominic won't let him leave the tarmac,” Sophie said quietly.
“Dominic is walking into a meat grinder, Sophie,” Marco replied grimly, checking the side mirror as he killed the SUV’s headlights.
“He’s blinded by rage.”
“He thinks they took Mateo.”
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat.
“He thinks Mateo was taken?”
“Castellano sent him a text message twenty minutes ago,” Marco said, his jaw tightening into iron.
“A photograph of an empty crib in the Lake Forest nursery with the words: Your blood belongs to me now.”
“Dominic threw away his tactical radio.”
“He’s going in to kill everyone in that building or die trying.”
Sophie’s fingers dug into the silver casing of the drive.
“Step on the gas, Marco.”
The heavy SUV lurched forward, bouncing violently over rusted railroad tracks before cutting across the overgrown weeds of the airfield’s service road.
Up ahead, Hangar 9 rose like a massive corrugated steel mountain against the dark runway.
The roar of twin jet turbine engines cut through the howling rain.
Two private security SUVs sat parked near the open hangar bay, their hazard lights flashing amber against the wet asphalt.
Suddenly, a volley of automatic gunfire echoed from inside the hangar.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the vast interior like strobe lights.
Glass shattered.
A scream of agony ripped through the industrial roar of the jet engines.
Marco slammed the brakes, sliding the SUV to a stop behind a row of rusted fuel drums fifty yards from the hangar doors.
“Stay in the car!” Marco barked, racking the bolt of his submachine gun with his good hand.
“No,” Sophie said, unbuckling her harness with rapid, practiced movements.
“Sophie, it’s a kill zone!” Marco hissed, turning back with raw panic in his eyes.
“Dominic is fighting because he thinks his son is gone!” Sophie shouted over the gunfire.
“If he sees Mateo, he stops being a suicidal martyr and remembers he has something to live for!”
“Cover me!”
Without waiting for Marco’s permission, Sophie kicked the heavy armored door open into the freezing rain.
She wrapped her wool coat securely around Mateo, tucking his face beneath the lapel to shield him from the flying drizzle and the concussive noise.
She stepped out into the open tarmac, her boots splashing through puddles of jet fuel and rainwater.
Marco swore violently, jumping out behind her, raising his weapon to scan the rusted catwalks above the hangar.
Inside Hangar 9, the violence had reached a fever pitch.
Four of Castellano’s private mercenaries lay motionless across the polished concrete floor, surrounded by pools of blood and spent brass casings.
At the center of the hangar, pinned behind an overturned baggage cart, Dominic was fighting with demonic intensity.
His jacket was gone.
His white shirt was torn to shreds, soaked in his own blood and the blood of his enemies.
He had an empty tactical rifle in his left hand and a heavy combat blade in his right.
His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated madness.
Ten feet away, surrounded by four heavily armed bodyguards, stood Carlo Castellano.
Carlo was in his early sixties, with slicked-back silver hair, a sharp camel-hair coat, and the cold, arrogant sneer of a man who believed money bought absolute immunity.
“Give it up, Dominic!” Carlo shouted over the high-pitched whine of the idling Gulfstream.
“The boy is already on a transport van crossing into Ohio!”
“You’ll never see Clara’s bastard again!”
Dominic let out a roar that shook the corrugated steel roof.
He lunged from behind the baggage cart, completely ignoring the bullets ricocheting off the concrete around his boots.
He closed the distance with terrifying speed, his combat knife slashing through the throat of the first bodyguard before the man could raise his rifle.
Dominic grabbed the second guard by the tactical vest, slamming him into the steel support beam with bone-crushing force.
A bullet from the third guard caught Dominic in the left side, tearing through his ribs.
Dominic stumbled, gasping for air, but didn't fall.
He drove his blade upward into the guard’s armpit, dropping him like a sack of stones.
Carlo Castellano backed away toward the open airstair of the private jet, pulling a chrome-plated revolver from his waistband with trembling hands.
Dominic advanced on him, dripping crimson, moving with the terrifying inevitability of the Grim Reaper.
“Dominic!” a clear, piercing voice cut through the cavernous hangar.
Dominic stopped in mid-stride.
His wild, bloodshot eyes darted toward the massive hangar entrance.
Framed against the sheets of freezing rain stood Sophie Lane.
Her hair was soaked, plastered against her neck.
Her clothes were streaked with mud and grease.
And strapped firmly against her chest, wide awake and watching the lights with curious eyes, was Mateo.
The infant saw his father through the haze of smoke and let out a bright, joyful squeal.
“Da!” Mateo babied, kicking his legs inside the tactical wrap.
Dominic froze as if struck by a lightning bolt.
The terrifying madness in his eyes shattered instantly, dissolving into a look of overwhelming, disbelieving wonder.
“Mateo…” Dominic choked out, his knees buckling under the weight of his wounds and his sudden, staggering relief.
Carlo Castellano saw the child.
His eyes flashed with desperate, vicious malice.
He raised the chrome revolver, swinging the barrel away from Dominic and aiming it directly at Sophie and the baby.
“If I can’t have the leverage,” Carlo snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger, “nobody leaves this hangar alive!”
Before Carlo could pull the hammer back, a deafening blast tore through the hangar.
Marco fired from the entrance, the slug punching through Carlo’s right shoulder.
The chrome revolver went flying across the wet concrete, clattering harmlessly into an oil drainage grate.
Carlo screamed, clutching his ruined shoulder as he fell backward onto the lower steps of the airstair.
Dominic was on him in half a second.
His heavy boot came down with crushing force onto Carlo’s chest, pinning the New York mob boss against the metal stairs.
Dominic raised his combat blade, the steel tip hovering half an inch above Carlo’s terrified throat.
“Wait!” Carlo shrieked, tears of raw terror spilling down his wrinkled face.
“Dominic, we are family! Clara was my blood!”
“You don't get to speak her name,” Dominic whispered, his breath coming in hot, bloody gasps.
“Dominic, don't!” Sophie shouted, walking steadily across the bloody concrete floor, her hand resting over Mateo’s eyes so he wouldn't see the violence.
She stopped three feet from the airstair, looking down at Carlo with cold, clinical disgust.
She held up the silver USB drive.
“We don't need to kill him, Dominic,” Sophie said, her voice cutting through the hum of the jet engines.
“Clara left this.”
“Every bank account, every offshore laundering operation, and every federal crime the Castellano family committed over the last decade.”
“The FBI’s organized crime division in Chicago already has the preliminary transmission.”
“They are surrounding the airfield perimeter right now.”
Carlo’s eyes widened with utter, horrifying realization.
“No…” Carlo whimpered.
“You gave it to the feds?”
“You didn't just lose this war, Carlo,” Dominic whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from the old man’s ear.
“You lost your entire family’s future.”
“You will spend the rest of your miserable life dying in a prison hospital, watching our legitimate ships sail past your cell window.”
In the distance, the wail of dozens of federal sirens pierced the night, their blue and red lights flashing against the runway rain.
Dominic lowered the blade.
He pulled his boot off Carlo’s chest, turning his back on the broken kingpin without another word.
He took two unsteady steps toward Sophie, his strength finally deserting him.
He fell to his knees on the concrete, his hands shaking violently as he reached out toward his son.
Sophie dropped to her knees in front of him, unbuckling the wrap.
She placed Mateo directly into his father’s trembling, bloody arms.
Mateo didn't flinch from the blood or the smell of smoke.
He reached out with his tiny, soft fingers, touching the deep, exhausted lines around his father’s eyes.
Dominic buried his face against his son’s neck, weeping openly, his massive shoulders shaking with silent, profound gratitude.
Sophie placed her warm hand against the back of Dominic’s neck, leaning her forehead against his wounded shoulder.
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The sirens grew louder, surrounding the hangar in an impenetrable wall of light.
The nightmare was finally over.
