Chapter 5 - Whispers Beneath the River
“Don't move, Roman,” Grant whispered, stepping back into the shadows of the boxcar. “I told Vladimir you’d never agree to terms. He didn't want to leave any loose ends tonight.”
From behind the towering stacks of shipping containers, six men emerged. They were clad in tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas. Leading them was a tall, silver-haired man whose scarred visage Roman recognized immediately: Anton Rostov, Vladimir Rostov’s younger brother and enforcer.
“Roman Calder,” Anton spoke in heavily accented English, stepping forward with a cruel smile. “You ruled this territory for a long time. But kings who want to become family men usually end up in shallow graves.”
Roman stood perfectly motionless under the crimson beam of the sniper rifle. He didn't reach for his gun. He didn't look at Grant.
“You think you planned this well, Anton,” Roman said calmly.
“I know I did,” Anton smirked, raising his hand to signal his men. “Your loyal guard dogs are currently searching warehouse twelve on the north pier because of a false tip my associates planted an hour ago. You came here alone to confront your friend. A tragic mistake of pride.”
“I didn't come here to confront a friend,” Roman replied, his voice chillingly level. “I came here to confirm a roster.”
With his left hand inside his pocket, Roman twisted the cap of the cylinder Evelyn had given him forty-five degrees.
High above in the industrial rafters, the sniper’s rifle didn't fire. Instead, there was a dull, wet thwack, followed by the heavy crash of a body tumbling twenty feet down onto the hood of an empty freight car.
Before Anton could react, the yard’s towering stadium floodlights roared to life with an ear-splitting hum, instantly blinding the Rostov mercenaries. High-caliber sniper rounds began punching through the concrete floor in a deadly, rhythmic cadence.
From every exit point of the rail yard, black unmarked tactical vans screeched to a halt, spilling out Marcus Vance’s elite assault units armed with assault rifles and ballistic shields.
“Drop your weapons!” Vance’s voice bellowed through an external megaphone. “Calder perimeter is sealed!”
Panic erupted. Anton Rostov screamed orders in Russian, diving behind an iron support girder as automatic gunfire shredded the gravel around his boots. Grant Mercer scrambled backward, his face drained of all color, suddenly realizing that the trap had been set for him from the moment Roman answered the phone.
Roman drew his Kimber .45 in one fluid, terrifying motion. He didn't dive for cover. He moved through the chaotic crossfire with the terrifying poise of a man who believed he was already immortalized by the promise he made to his wife.
Anton lunged from behind the girder, leveling his pistol at Roman’s head.
Roman fired twice.
The heavy rounds caught Anton squarely in the chest, lifting the Russian off his feet and dropping him lifeless onto the frozen rail ties. The remaining Rostov mercenaries threw down their weapons under the overwhelming tactical superiority of Vance’s assault team.
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Roman turned his gaze toward the far end of the repair bay.
Grant Mercer was running toward an idling delivery van parked near the drainage canal.
