Chapter 6 - AMBUSH AT RED HOOK
The trap was sprung forty-eight hours later beneath a relentless freezing rain that turned the industrial warehouses of Red Hook, Brooklyn, into a maze of slick black asphalt and rusted iron.
The bait had worked with terrifying precision. Panicked by Harper’s manufactured chatter on encrypted channels, Rajesh had convinced Kabir Dev that federal agents were swarming Newark. Kabir had ordered the high-value cargo offloaded onto two unmarked tractor-trailers and redirected to a dilapidated dry dock in Brooklyn.
Harper lay prone on the corrugated metal roof of an abandoned sugar refinery, peering through the thermal scope of a suppressed sniper rifle. The cold bit through her tactical jacket, but her breathing was slow, rhythmic, completely detached from the physical agony of the elements.
Beside her, Kian adjusted his spotter scope.
"Movement at the perimeter gate," Kian whispered through the tactical comms link. "Three black SUVs. No headlights."
"I have visual," Harper replied softly, her finger resting lightly against the cold curved steel of the trigger. "Lead vehicle has Rajesh in the passenger seat. Second vehicle... confirm Kabir Dev."
The thermal silhouette of the man in the back of the second SUV was burned into Harper’s memory. The posture, the slight tilt of the head, the heavy cane he used to favor his left knee—the lingering trophy of a grenade Harper had tossed into his compound six years ago.
"Hold fire until the trucks enter the warehouse bay," Kian commanded. "We need the cargo secured before we light the perimeter."
The convoy rolled through the iron gates, the massive corrugated bay doors of the warehouse groaning open to swallow them. Inside, twenty of Kian’s elite private operators were concealed behind shipping pallets and crane gantries, waiting for the signal.
Suddenly, Harper’s scope caught something wrong.
Rajesh stepped out of the first vehicle, but he wasn't looking at the warehouse. He was looking up—directly toward the roof of the refinery. In his hand, a handheld radio flashed green.
"Kian," Harper hissed. "It's a burn. They know we're on the roof."
Before Kian could reply, the roar of a high-caliber heavy machine gun tore through the night.
A barrage of .50-caliber rounds ripped through the sheet metal roof ten feet to their left, showering them in sparks, twisted iron, and pulverized gravel. A hidden technical truck had been parked two hundred yards away in an elevated crane tower, sweeping the high ground with suppressive fire.
"Move!" Kian roared, grabbing Harper’s harness and dragging her backward as the roof disintegrated beneath their feet.
They plummeted through the collapsing corrugated sheeting, crashing twenty feet down onto the metal catwalk of the refinery’s interior. Kian twisted mid-air, taking the brunt of the impact against his back, his breath exploding from his lungs with a violent groan.
Harper rolled onto her feet, weapon raised, her instincts screaming.
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Below them, on the ground floor of the cavernous facility, Kabir Dev stood surrounded by a dozen heavily armed mercenaries. His voice, magnified by the acoustic echo of the rusted vats, drifted upward—mocking, oily, and dripping with triumph.
"You should have stayed in the dirt of Afghanistan, little Sparrow!" Kabir shouted in Hindi, raising a gold-plated submachine gun. "Did you really think I didn't recognize your voice when Rajesh called me trembling like a dog? Kill them both. Bring me her hands!"
