Chapter 3 - The Red Hook Ambush
The warehouse in Red Hook loomed like a rusted cathedral against the pale moonlight. Decaying shipping containers were stacked three stories high inside the cavernous structure, creating a maze of corrugated metal and deep shadows.
Rory stepped out of the lead vehicle, his boots crunching on gravel mixed with shattered glass. Marcus and four heavily armed security operatives flanked him, their weapons held at the low-ready position.
“Spread out,” Rory whispered. “Find the communication relay. I want to know who Salvatore Morosco has been talking to.”
They moved through the labyrinth of containers with practiced, silent efficiency. The air smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rotting wood. As they approached the central office pod suspended above the warehouse floor, a soft clicking sound echoed through the metal rafters.
“Ambush!” Marcus roared, shoving Rory to the side as a volley of automatic gunfire chewed through the wooden siding of the office pod.
Wood splinters exploded into the air. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete floor with sharp, whining screeches. Rory rolled behind a stack of industrial pallets, drawing a polished Sig Sauer pistol from his shoulder holster with fluid speed.
“Return fire!” Rory commanded, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos.
The Starks security team retaliated with devastating precision, their suppressed weapons emitting short, heavy thuds that drowned out the frantic shouts of the Morosco gunmen above. Marcus surged forward up the steel staircase leading to the office, kicking the metal door off its hinges and neutralizing the two snipers stationed by the windows in a matter of seconds.
Within three minutes, the gunfire ceased. Silence rushed back into the warehouse, broken only by the groaning of rusted metal in the coastal breeze.
Rory walked up the stairs, stepping over a wounded gunman who clutched a bleeding shoulder. He entered the glass-walled office, where a high-end computer terminal was still glowing in the dim light.
“Check the hard drives,” Rory ordered Marcus, holstering his weapon. “Find out what they were transmitting.”
Marcus sat at the terminal, his thick fingers flying across the keyboard. A series of encrypted files scrolled down the screen, accompanied by satellite tracking logs and financial wire transfers originating from offshore accounts.
Suddenly, Marcus stopped scrolling. His brow furrowed deeply.
“Boss... you need to see this. This isn’t about the shipping routes.”
Rory leaned over the desk, staring at the monitor. The files weren't cargo manifests. They were architectural blueprints, security schedules, and high-resolution thermal imaging scans of a single location: Rory’s Long Island estate.
And stamped across every single document was a family crest that made Rory’s blood run instantly cold.
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It wasn't the Morosco family.
It was the crest of his own blood relatives—the Starks-related holding company managed by his estranged brother-in-law, Arthur Vance, the husband of his late wife Claire’s sister, Susan.
