Chapter 8 - THE LONG ISLAND DEPOT
At 3:15 AM, a convoy of four matte-black SUVs rolled silently without headlights through the deserted industrial labyrinth of Long Island City.
The vehicles cut their engines a block away from Marcone’s trucking depot—a massive, barbed-wire-fenced compound filled with stacked shipping containers, semi-trucks, and a rusted corrugated metal warehouse office glowing under flickering amber security lights.
Inside the lead vehicle, Luca checked his tactical comms unit. Behind him sat Victor Reyes and six elite operatives. In the passenger seat sat Grace, wearing a dark tactical vest over her sweater, her hair pulled back in a tight, practical braid.
"Perimeter is clear of automated turrets," Victor whispered over the secure channel. "Two guards at the front gate. Three inside the main office. Marcone’s private car is idling by loading dock four."
"We move in two teams," Luca instructed quietly, his eyes fixed on the glowing warehouse windows ahead. "Victor, take the side loading bay. Cut off their retreat to the airstrip. I’ll take the front office."
"And me?" Grace asked.
Luca turned to look at her, his expression tight with controlled anxiety. "You stay in this vehicle with the communications relay. You coordinate the feed."
"No," Grace said, opening her door. "If Marcone is barricaded inside that office, he’s holding hostages or corporate ledgers we need to trace his offshore accounts. You need someone who can read a panicked animal before it bites."
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Before Luca could argue, Grace had already slipped out into the freezing autumn air, moving with surprising, silent agility toward the perimeter fence.
Luca clenched his jaw, grabbed his rifle, and muttered a silent curse under his breath before following her into the dark.
