Chapter 6 - The Iron Yard
The Sikorsky S-76 helicopter cut through the fading storm clouds at four hundred feet, its twin turbine engines a low, vibrating hum against the grey light of dawn approaching over Lake Michigan.
Evelyn sat near the cabin window, wearing a heavy, black tactical parka Marcus’s team had provided, equipped with an encrypted comms headset. Beside her sat Marcus, holding a heavy tablet that displayed a live infrared feed from Terminal 4 in Detroit.
At precisely 4:58 a.m., three black vans pulled into the wet gravel lot of Terminal 4. Eleven thermal silhouettes stepped out, moving with weapons drawn into the main bay of the warehouse.
“They’re inside,” Kaelen’s voice came through the headset from the penthouse war room. “Krol is setting the charges near the central support pillars.”
“Lock the bay doors,” Evelyn commanded into her mic.
On the screen, two heavy steel automated doors slammed shut, sealing the warehouse. The thermal silhouettes stopped, turning quickly toward the exits.
“Deploy CO2 suppression system,” Marcus ordered.
On the infrared feed, a cold cloud of white vapor flooded the thermal view. Within forty seconds, the eleven silhouettes began to sway, stumble, and collapse to the concrete floor one by one like bowling pins.
By 5:02 a.m., all eleven men were motionless.
“System reading zero oxygen on the main floor,” Kaelen reported. “They’re out cold. Federal tip has been placed through an encrypted line to the ATF in Detroit. Tactical units are five minutes away.”
Marcus closed the tablet screen with a quiet snap.
“Clean,” Marcus said, turning to look at Evelyn. “Not a single drop of blood on my floor.”
“Save your celebrations, Mr. Vale,” Evelyn said, pointing out the helicopter window toward the vast, rusted sprawl of the industrial rail yards of Gary, Indiana, approaching below them. “Moretti’s safehouse is two minutes away.”
The target was not a grand mansion or a high-rise penthouse. Dominic Moretti operated out of a converted two-story brick administrative office sitting in the middle of a defunct steel scrap yard. The yard was surrounded by twelve-foot chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, guarded by three outer patrols and an array of motion sensors.
The helicopter didn't land inside the yard. It set down quietly on a gravel pad half a mile away, hidden behind a row of rusted rail cars.
Marcus, Evelyn, and Raymond stepped down onto the wet gravel. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a freezing, biting wind off the lake and the sharp smell of wet iron and industrial ozone.
Raymond carried a compact, suppressed submachine gun beneath his coat, while two additional operators from Marcus’s private tactical unit fell into formation behind them.
“What’s the approach?” Raymond asked, checking his night-vision optics.
“No shooting unless fired upon,” Evelyn directed, stepping to the front of the group. “Moretti’s outer guards use a roving patrol pattern every eight minutes. But look at the perimeter fence on the east side.”
She gestured toward a section of chain-link covered in heavy green privacy mesh.
“The mesh is torn near the bottom,” Evelyn noted. “That’s where the local stray dogs get into the yard. Which means the motion sensors on that sector have been manually dialed down to lower sensitivity so the alarm doesn't go off every time a hound wanders through.”
Raymond looked through his thermal scope. “She’s right. The infrared sensor beam on sector three is flickering.”
“We bypass the guards through sector three,” Marcus said, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. He looked at Raymond. “Remind me to double her salary again next month.”
They moved silently through the wet grass, slipping through the gap in the security fence without triggering a single alarm.
Within six minutes, they had reached the rear fire exit of the brick administrative building.
The rear door was locked with a heavy commercial keypad. Raymond pulled a electronic lock-bypass tool from his vest, but Evelyn put her hand on his forearm.
“Look at the keypad,” Evelyn whispered.
The plastic key housing was worn. The numbers 2, 4, 8, and 9 showed heavy grease stains from fingers that had touched them hundreds of times.
“Moretti was born in 1948,” Evelyn murmured. “His primary horse racing betting tag in Chicago was 2489.”
Raymond punched in the four digits: 2-4-8-9.
The heavy magnetic lock clicked open with a soft hum.
Raymond looked at Evelyn, shook his head in absolute disbelief, and slowly pushed the door open.
They stepped into the quiet, dimly lit rear hallway of the safehouse. The air inside smelled of stale cigar smoke, cheap espresso, and old leather.
May you like
From the second-floor office above them, a loud, gravelly voice echoed down the stairwell, accompanied by the clinking of a whiskey bottle against a glass.
Dominic Moretti was celebrating a victory that hadn't happened.
