Chapter 3 - The Ambush at Navy Pier
Rain battered the corrugated metal roof of Warehouse 14 at Navy Pier like a relentless drumbeat. Inside, the air smelled of brine, diesel exhaust, and wet concrete. Tommy Callahan stood on an elevated steel catwalk, wearing his tailored charcoal coat, checking his gold Rolex. Below him, forty crates of untraceable firearms and contraband pharmaceuticals were being loaded into unmarked Gallagher trucks.
Beside him stood Declan Gallagher, Liam’s younger, hot-tempered brother, chewing on an unlit cigar.
“Your boy Russo hasn't made a peep,” Declan grunted, squinting into the gloom of the wet docks. “You sure the girl delivered the package right? If Victor gets suspicious, he won’t wait for morning.”
Tommy let out a dry, arrogant chuckle, leaning against the metal railing. “Victor is sitting in his ivory tower right now, staring at that diamond ring, completely paralyzed. He thinks Audrey stopped loving him because of his violent lifestyle. The man is a romantic fool under all that Italian bravado. By the time he realizes the wool was pulled over his eyes, our ships will be halfway to Montreal, and your brother will run the North Side.”
“And the girl’s sister?” Declan asked with a sinister grin.
“Take care of her at dawn,” Tommy dismissed casually, waving his hand. “Tie up the loose ends.”
Suddenly, the warehouse plunged into pitch darkness. The heavy diesel generators hummed down to an eerie, dead silence. Down on the floor, the warehouse workers stopped moving, whispering in confusion as the heavy industrial lamps died.
“What the hell is that?” Declan cursed, reaching into his leather jacket for his semi-automatic. “Generator blown?”
A loud, metallic thump echoed from the main bay doors. Then came the unmistakable sound of an industrial chain snapping like dry twine. The enormous steel roller door was violently ripped off its tracks by an armored SUV ramming through the entryway, headlights cutting through the blackness with blinding intensity.
From the glare of the high beams emerged Victor Russo.
He wasn’t wearing his immaculate bespoke suit. He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, combat boots, and carried a customized Benelli shotgun resting casually over his shoulder. Behind him stepped six seasoned men, their weapons raised with terrifying discipline.
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“Tommy,” Victor’s voice boomed across the cavernous room, amplified by the warehouse walls. It was low, resonant, and dripping with venom. “You forgot rule number one of the Russo family. When you plan a funeral, always make sure the body is in the casket first.”
Gunfire erupted instantly, tearing the midnight air to shreds.
