Chapter 7 - THE SUBTERRANEAN ROUTE
The black armored Suburban tore through the predawn darkness of the Long Island Expressway, its headlights killed, navigating by thermal imaging alone.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of gun oil, black coffee, and unyielding tension. Marco sat in the front passenger seat, checking the magazines of an MP5 submachine gun, while Roman sat beside me in the back, silently sharpening the edge of a heavy combat knife with a small whetstone.
Shing. Shing.
The rhythmic scraping of metal against stone was the only sound inside the vehicle.
“We’re two miles out from Pier 42,” Marco announced, peering at the tactical display on his dashboard. “Thermal scans show at least twenty armed men patrolling the perimeter. Two sniper nests on the main gantry cranes. And heat signatures inside Bay B indicate hostages being held in the lower municipal office.”
Roman slipped the knife back into its calf holster and turned his head toward me.
“Repeat the blind spot,” Roman ordered quietly.
“Bay D,” I recited without hesitation, staring through the armored windshield at the grey silhouette of the harbor rising against the horizon. “The municipal drainage pipe behind the old refrigeration unit. It connects directly to the lower storm system running beneath Bay B. Julian didn't update the security blueprints when he took over the lease; he thinks that pipe is still blocked by silt.”
“And if he was smart enough to check it?” Roman asked, his eyes searching mine.
“Then we die,” I said flatly. “But Julian is arrogant. He thinks he’s playing chess with men who only know how to throw punches. He doesn't realize we’ve already won the board.”
Roman gave a faint, grim nod. He reached out and placed his large, warm hand over my trembling fingers resting on my knee. He didn't say a word, but the pressure of his grip communicated everything: I’ve got you.
The Suburban slowed to a dead stop in the shadows of a rusted overpass a quarter-mile from the pier.
Marco killed the engine. Total silence enveloped us.
“Alright,” Marco whispered, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll take the western fence, draw their primary sniper watch away from the gate. Give me five minutes, Boss, then you and Mrs. Caruso make your move.”
“Be careful, Marco,” Roman said.
“Always, Boss.”
Marco slipped out of the vehicle like a ghost, vanishing into the damp, pre-dawn fog rolling off the East River.
We waited. Five agonizing minutes ticked by on the dashboard clock.
Crack!
A muffled, suppressed gunshot echoed from the western perimeter, followed instantly by the frantic flashing of red security lights near the main gate. The guards on the gantry cranes scrambled, swinging their spotlights toward the west fence.
“Now,” Roman murmured.
We slipped out of the Suburban, moving with swift, silent precision. I led Roman through the maze of rusted shipping containers, keeping low, our dark clothes blending seamlessly into the industrial shadows.
We reached the back of Bay D.
There it was—the heavy, rusted iron grate of the municipal drainage pipe, half-hidden by overgrown weeds and brackish water.
Roman grabbed the iron bars with both hands. Veins bulged in his forearms as he exerted a massive, controlled surge of strength. With a dull, groaning rip, the rusted anchors gave way, and he pulled the entire grate outward, tossing it silently into the mud.
May you like
“After you,” Roman whispered, gesturing into the dark, foul-smelling tunnel.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped down into the cold water, the chill biting through my clothes, and began to crawl forward into the dark, guided only by the steady pressure of Roman’s hand resting securely on the small of my back.
