Chapter 8 - The Siege of East AustinThe warehouse district in East Austin was quiet at 3:00 AM, save for the hum of refrigeration units and the occasional rumble of a freight train on the nearby tracks.
It was also the primary staging ground for the Alvarez family’s smuggling operations in central Texas.
Four black Escalades rolled silently down the industrial access road, their headlights off, running on night-vision and GPS overlays. We didn't bother with subtlety anymore. This wasn't a corporate takeover; this was an extermination.
I sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, sliding the magazine into my custom SIG Sauer P226. Beside me, Marcus checked the safety on his submachine gun.
“The main office is on the second floor,” Marcus said, pointing at a dilapidated corrugated metal building surrounded by chain-link fences. “Boss of the local cell is a guy named Hector Alvarez—cousin to the main syndicate head in Houston. About fifteen guys inside.”
“Give them two minutes to surrender,” I said coldly. “If they don't, burn the building down with them in it.”
We didn't wait two minutes.
Marcus didn't even knock. He planted an industrial breaching charge on the side door of the warehouse, hit the detonator, and the steel frame blew inward with a deafening roar that shook the corrugated walls.
Before the smoke had even cleared, my men poured into the building like a tide of black shadows.
“Moretti!” someone shouted from the upper gantry in Spanish, followed by the frantic clatter of a rifle bolt being slammed home.
I stepped through the shattered doorway, ignoring the chaotic gunfire popping off above us. A bullet pinged off the concrete pillar two feet to my left. I didn't flinch. I raised my pistol, sighted through the dim amber emergency lighting, and fired twice.
The man on the gantry dropped his weapon, clutched his shoulder, and tumbled backward over the railing, hitting the plywood floor below with a heavy thud.
Within four minutes, the warehouse was dead silent.
Thirteen men were kneeling on the concrete with their hands locked behind their heads, surrounded by my guards. In the center of the room, trembling like a wet dog, was Hector Alvarez.
I walked over to him, my leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the blood-stained floor. I stopped right in front of him, holstered my weapon, and grabbed him by the expensive silk tie he wore, jerking him up to his knees.
“H-Hold on!” Hector gasped, blood dripping from a cut over his eyebrow. “Thomas—we didn't know they were your blood! Rebecca said—she said they were just orphans!”
“Rebecca is going to spend the rest of her life in a six-by-eight cell,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “And you? You thought you could buy and sell my brother’s children like cargo?”
“I’ll pay!” Hector choked out, panic flooding his eyes. “Name your price! A million? Five million? Take our shipping lanes! Take the entire port!”
I stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, I let go of his tie, letting him slump back onto the concrete.
“I don't want your money, Hector,” I said, turning my back to him and signaling Marcus. “And I don't want your shipping lanes.”
“Then what do you want?!” he screamed as Marcus stepped forward with industrial zip-ties.
May you like
I paused at the shattered doorway, looking back over my shoulder into the dark, smoky warehouse.
“I want you to call your cousin in Houston,” I said smoothly. “Tell him Thomas Moretti is coming for dinner tomorrow night. And he better clear his schedule.”
