Chapter 13 - The Freight Yard Ambush
Three nights later, an unmarked cargo train carrying millions in contraband electronics and imported luxury goods—Rossi’s primary financial pipeline—crept into the switching yards off the Chicago River.
We didn't call the police. We didn't call the feds.
Marcus and a dozen handpicked security operatives moved through the towering stacks of shipping containers like ghosts. From a rooftop overlooking the tracks, I watched through high-powered binoculars as Salvatore stepped out directly into the path of the incoming locomotive, forcing the engineer to slam on the emergency brakes.
Sparks screamed against the iron rails as the massive engine ground to a halt.
Vincent Rossi stepped down from the cabin, flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards. He looked around, laughing a dry, raspy laugh that echoed across the damp gravel.
“Marquetti!” Rossi called out into the night air. “I heard you went soft playing charity worker for deaf kids! Looks like the rumors were wrong.”
Salvatore didn't speak. He stepped into the amber glow of a rail yard floodlight, his hands rising deliberately.
You brought New York problems to Chicago, Rossi. That was your first mistake.
Your second was thinking I wouldn't notice.
May you like
Rossi’s smile vanished. He raised his hand to signal his guards, but before his fingers could snap, the floodlights flickered and died. Total, absolute darkness swallowed the rail yard.
What followed wasn't a firefight; it was an execution of tactics.
