Chapter 8 - The Echoes of the Past
While peace had settled over the Mercer Street penthouse, the underworld outside was undergoing a violent realignment.
Marcus Higgins, head of the Higgins Syndicate, did not take kindly to having his extortion rings dismantled and his street collectors handed over to federal authorities.
On a rainy Tuesday night, Julian Carver intercepted an encrypted radio transmission on a localized frequency used by low-level syndicate enforcers.
Dante stood in the subterranean security hub, listening to the recorded audio playback.
“Valenti thinks he owns the whole west side,” a rough, gravelly voice spat through the speaker. “We hit him where it hurts. Not his warehouses. His house. Get eyes on the staff quarters. Find the kid.”
Julian clicked off the recorder, his face carved from granite. “They’re desperate, Boss. They know the feds are closing in on their financial records based on the evidence we handed over from Arthur’s ledger. They’re trying to make it personal.”
Dante’s eyes turned pitch black. The casual confidence vanished, replaced by the lethal, singular focus of a man whose sanctuary had been threatened.
“They want to make it personal?” Dante’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of an avalanche. “Let’s give them an audience.”
“What do you want to do?” Julian asked, his hand resting near his holster.
“Set a trap,” Dante instructed coldly. “Leak a false schedule through our secondary logistics feed. Let Higgins think the penthouse security detail is rotating out for a private summit at midnight tomorrow. Let him believe the service elevator is unguarded.”
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“And if he takes the bait?”
“Then we close the iron fist,” Dante said. “We don’t just repel them, Julian. We obliterate them so thoroughly that nobody in this city ever speaks the name Higgins again.”
