Chapter 6 - The Trap at Pier 44
The underground parking garage of my Manhattan penthouse was dead silent when the elevator doors slid open. The concrete floor was slick with moisture, reflecting the harsh fluorescent overhead lights. My armored black Maybach sat parked in its usual spot, its engine idling quietly.
Before I could reach the driver's side door, three shadows detached themselves from the concrete pillars ahead.
"Hold it right there, Carter," a gruff voice echoed through the garage.
Two of my own senior capos—men I had trusted for over a decade, men who had shared cigars and whiskey at my table—stepped out from the dark, leveling submachine guns directly at my chest.
I stopped, my hands resting loosely at my sides. I didn't reach for my weapon. Against automatic rifles at ten paces, a pistol was nothing more than an accessory.
"Vito. Frank," I said, my voice completely devoid of fear. "I expected better posture from veterans of the Brooklyn docks."
Vito, a burly man with a broken nose and a permanent scowl, spat onto the concrete. "Save the tough-guy act, Alexander. We saw the Falcone broadcast. We heard the recordings. You sold out the old guard in 2018, and now you're bringing federal heat down on all of us while you play hide-and-seek with your little cleaning lady and her kid."
"And you believe Marcus Falcone?" I asked calmly. "Since when do trustworthy Moretti and Carter capos take tactical advice from a bunch of coke-snorting amateurs from Brooklyn?"
"Marcus didn't give us the advice, Alexander—the ledgers did," Frank interrupted, his finger tightening nervously on the trigger of his submachine gun. "The commission already met via encrypted conference call ten minutes ago. The verdict is unanimous. You're stripped of your title, your assets are forfeit, and we're taking your head to Marcus as a peace offering to stop the war."
I tilted my head, letting out a slow, cold breath. "A peace offering? Frank, let me tell you something about the Falcones. When a wolf comes to your door asking for a sheep’s head, it doesn't mean he wants to be friends. It means he's hungry enough to eat the whole flock."
"Shut your mouth!" Vito roared, stepping forward and shoving the barrel of his submachine gun hard against my shoulder. "Move toward the car. Hands behind your head. Now!"
I didn't move. Instead, I raised my right hand slowly and tapped the gold signet ring on my finger against the metal frame of the Maybach.
Clink. Clink.
Vito frowned, hesitating for a fraction of a second. "What are you doing?"
"Asking myself how I managed to survive twenty years at the top of the New York underworld while surrounded by men who couldn't recognize a trap if it bit them on the nose," I said softly.
Before Vito could pull the trigger, the overhead fluorescent lights in the parking garage suddenly blinked off, plunging the entire level into pitch blackness.
A split second later, the sharp, deafening cracks of silenced sniper fire echoed off the concrete walls.
Vito and Frank didn't even have time to scream. Two precise rounds struck the concrete floor inches from their boots, followed immediately by the heavy thud of two infrared stun grenades rolling out from the ventilation shafts above.
Flash! Pop!
A blinding white light and a concussive shockwave filled the garage. Both capos dropped their weapons, clutching their ears and collapsing to their knees, temporarily blinded and deafened.
Heavy combat boots crunched against the gravel. Four men in unmarked tactical gear stepped out of the shadows, their assault rifles equipped with thermal scopes. At their lead was Richard Blake, holding a specialized frequency jammer in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Richard walked up to the kneeling, disoriented capos and looked down at them with mild disgust.
"Idiots," Richard muttered, blowing a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "Did you really think Alexander didn't have backup plans for his backup plans?"
I lowered my hands, brushing a speck of dust off my suit jacket. I looked at Richard. "I thought you were staying upstairs with Clara."
May you like
"I was," Richard replied, tossing a spare tactical vest toward me. "Until I realized that letting a bunch of ungrateful thugs ambush my best business partner was bad for my portfolio. Besides, the kid liked me. I couldn't let her grow up without a godfather."
I caught the vest, slipping it over my shoulders. "Let's go, Richard. Pier 44. It's time to show Marcus Falcone what real history looks like."
