Chapter 10 - THE SIEGE AT 35TH STREET
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The industrial rail corridor near 35th Street was a desolate graveyard of rusted shipping containers, decaying freight cars, and wet gravel.
Rain began to fall again in heavy, erratic sheets, washing over the slick steel tracks like liquid lead.
Inside an abandoned locomotive repair shed, four halogen work lights illuminated a concrete platform.
Daniel Whitmore was strapped to an iron chair in the center of the floor, his white tuxedo drenched in mud and blood.
Standing over him was Yuri Volkov, a ruthless, fifty-year-old Russian syndicate boss with a shaved head and a scarred throat.
Beside Volkov stood four heavily armed mercenaries holding tactical submachine guns.
A laptop rested on an oil drum in front of Daniel, its screen glowing with the blue login portal of the Zurich Mercantile Bank.
“You have three minutes, Daniel,” Volkov growled, his thick accent cutting through the sound of rain drumming against the corrugated tin roof.
“Enter the secondary security key for the Western Avenue trust.”
“Transfer the thirty million to our Cyprus account, or I will peel your fingers off one by one.”
“I don't have the secondary key, Yuri!” Daniel screamed, weeping in sheer terror.
“Lydia held the master token! She never gave me the physical code!”
Volkov pulled a heavy semi-automatic pistol from his leather coat, racking the slide with a deafening metallic clatter.
He pressed the smoking barrel directly against Daniel’s temple.
“Then you are completely useless to me, my friend.”
Before Volkov’s finger could tighten on the trigger, the massive corrugated iron doors of the shed exploded inward in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
An armored Moretti Suburban breached the wall at forty miles per hour, smashing two Russian sentries into the concrete pillars.
The halogen lights shattered as tactical smoke grenades erupted across the floor, filling the shed with a blinding wall of white phosphorus smoke.
Gunfire erupted in a deafening, rhythmic roar—sharp, controlled bursts of automatic fire tearing through the gloom.
Dominic Moretti stepped through the smoke like an avenging shadow, his assault rifle raised to his shoulder.
He fired with surgical, terrifying precision.
Two Russian mercenaries attempting to flank the vehicle collapsed instantly to the concrete, their weapons skittering away into the dark.
Volkov grabbed Daniel by the collar of his torn jacket, using the groveling groom as a human shield, aiming his pistol toward the smoke.
“Hold your fire, Moretti!” Volkov roared into the haze.
“Take one more step and I paint this floor with your cousin’s husband!”
The smoke parted slowly in the draft of the broken wall.
Dominic stepped into the dim light of the burning truck, lowering his rifle by three inches.
He was drenched in rain, his black overcoat clinging to his broad frame, his dark gray eyes colder than the winter lake.
“Daniel is not my cousin’s husband, Yuri,” Dominic said, his voice echoing off the tin rafters with chilling clarity.
“He is a convicted felon who sold his soul for four million dollars.”
“If you pull that trigger, you save the state of Illinois the cost of a trial.”
Volkov’s eyes widened with sudden, calculating doubt.
He realized he was holding a hostage that had no value to the man standing twenty feet away.
“We can split the rail yards, Dominic,” Volkov offered frantically, his grip slipping on Daniel’s collar.
“Fifty-fifty! We share the river access!”
“You don't understand the new rules of this city, Volkov,” Dominic said softly.
Behind the Russian mobster, from the shadows of an elevated freight car, a red laser dot appeared on the center of Volkov’s forehead.
Marcus stepped out onto the steel catwalk above, his sniper rifle resting steadily on the iron railing.
Dominic raised his weapon once more.
“The Western Avenue rail yards do not belong to the syndicates.”
“They belong to Margaret and Rose Ellis.”
“And the Moretti family does not share with thieves.”
Dominic fired once.
The bullet struck Volkov’s right shoulder with explosive force, spinning the Russian boss around and knocking the weapon from his grip.
Marcus fired a non-lethal round from above, striking Volkov’s thigh and dropping him heavily to the concrete floor.
The remaining two mercenaries dropped their rifles immediately, raising their hands in complete, terrified surrender.
Dominic walked across the bloody floor, his boots splashing through puddles of rain and hydraulic fluid.
He looked down at Daniel Whitmore, who was weeping uncontrollably in his iron chair, clutching his bruised arms.
“Dominic... thank you... oh God, thank you for saving me...” Daniel sobbed.
Dominic looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
“I didn't save you for your sake, Daniel,” Dominic whispered coldly.
“I saved you so you can stand before a federal judge tomorrow morning and look Mia Alvarez in the eyes while they read your twenty-five-year sentence.”
He turned to his men.
“Bag them.”
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“Deliver them to Agent Miller’s headquarters.”
“The south side belongs to the light tonight.”
