Chapter 5 - The Riverfront Silo
The Mississippi River was a black, churned torrent under the midnight storm. The abandoned grain terminal loomed against the skyline like a decayed concrete fortress, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing and overgrown weeds.
Four black SUVs pulled up to the perimeter without headlights, idling silently in the dark.
My men filed out, moving with terrifying, silent discipline. They carried suppressed rifles, their night-vision goggles reflecting the faint amber glow of the distant city lights.
I stood beside the lead vehicle, pulling a black tactical vest over my dark shirt. Victor handed me a modified assault rifle.
"Thermal imaging shows seven heat signatures on the third floor of the main silo structure," Victor reported, checking a hand-held monitor. "One target is bound to a chair. That’s likely Lena."
"And the others?"
"Five guards stationed near the catwalks, one guy in a suit sitting at a folding table—that’s Paul Moretti or the judge."
"No civilian casualties, no loud noise until I'm inside," I instructed. "Victor, take three men up the fire escape. Frank, secure the ground-floor exits. Nobody leaves this building alive except Lena."
We moved across the muddy yard like ghosts.
The side door of the silo was secured with a heavy padlocked chain. Frank produced a pair of hydraulic bolt cutters, snapping the steel links with a dull crunch. We slipped inside.
The interior of the silo was a massive, hollow cavern of exposed iron, rusted conveyor belts, and dust. Echoes of voices drifted down from the upper platform sixty feet above.
I scaled the metal spiral staircase, my boots making no sound on the steel steps. As I reached the third-floor landing, I pressed my back against the concrete wall and peered around the corner.
Lena Vance was tied to a heavy wooden chair under a hanging work light. Her face was pale, a bruised cut running along her hairline, but her posture was straight, her head held high.
Sitting across from her at a plastic table was Paul Moretti—a slick, arrogant thirty-something wearing an expensive leather coat—and an elderly man in a suit holding a fountain pen and a stack of legal documents.
"Last chance, Lena," Paul Moretti drawled, tapping a silver lighter against the table. "Sign the transfer papers. You sign, you get to go home to your kids. You don't sign... well, the river is very deep tonight."
Lena spat directly onto the legal document lying in front of her.
"My daughter owns that land, Paul," Lena said, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. "And Ethan Cole will tear your family's empire to ash the moment he realizes what you've done."
Paul Moretti threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
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"Ethan Cole doesn't give a damn about you, lady!" Paul sneered. "He ignored your emails for a month! He's a businessman now, playing with his fancy hotels. He isn't going to war with the Kansas City family over an ex-girlfriend."
"He doesn't have to go to war for an ex-girlfriend," I spoke from the shadows, stepping out onto the catwalk with my rifle raised. "He goes to war for his family."
