Chapter 6 - Infiltrating the Red Hook TerminalThe salt air of the Brooklyn waterfront bit sharply through my black tactical jacket as I stepped out of Marcus’s unmarked van. In front of us loomed Warehouse 14—a massive, corrugated steel structure shrouded in deep shadows, guarded by two armed men pacing near a rusting loading bay.
Marcus handed me a suppressed tactical ear-piece and a small, credit-card-sized device.
"This is a Wi-Fi sniffer," Marcus whispered, his face illuminated by the faint glow of his tablet. "Once we get inside the server room on the second floor, plug this into their master router. It will download every encrypted file Rostov possesses within sixty seconds."
"And the guards?" I asked, eyeing the two heavily armed men fifty yards away.
"We don't engage unless we have to. Stay low, follow my footprint, and whatever you do, don't touch anything."
We slipped through a rusted side door that Marcus picked in under four seconds using a set of tension wrenches. The interior of the warehouse smelled of diesel fuel, rotting wood, and stale tobacco. Stacks of shipping crates towered toward the ceiling, bearing labels from various shell companies across Eastern Europe.
As we crept along the catwalk toward the administrative offices on the second floor, a sudden burst of harsh Russian voices echoed from below.
I froze, pressing my back against a stack of steel drums.
Through a gap in the railing, I saw Viktor Rostov himself. He was standing beside a mahogany desk, shouting at a trembling man in a cheap polyester suit.
"I don't care about the federal raid at Teterboro!" Rostov roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "Chloe was a loose end anyway! But if Marissa Cole causes any more problems with the penthouse transfer, I want her dealt with permanently. Do you understand me? Make it look like a tragic accident."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Anthony hadn't just used my house as a gambling chip; he had essentially signed a death warrant to clear his tab.
Marcus grabbed my elbow, pulling me gently toward the server room door at the end of the catwalk. "Keep moving," he mouthed.
We slipped inside the server room, the air conditioned to a crisp, freezing chill. Rows of black server racks hummed with a low, vibrating frequency.
I pulled the sniffer device from my pocket, stepped up to the main rack, and slotted it into the primary server port.
BEEP.
A bright red LED light flashed on the device.
On the other side of the door, heavy boots echoed sharply against the metal grating.
"Hey! Who's in the server room?" a gruff voice shouted in Russian.
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The download progress bar on the screen ticked upward: 45%... 60%... 75%...
The doorknob began to turn.
