Chapter 4 - The Meatpacking District Massacre
By 8:00 a.m., the sun was struggling to break through the gray Chicago smog, casting pale light over the sprawling, industrial expanse of the city’s meatpacking district on the southwest side.
An abandoned, multi-story cold-storage warehouse served as the temporary headquarters for Vince Marino and his transplanted New York enforcers. Inside the cavernous, blood-stained concrete rooms, crates of smuggled contraband were stacked against the walls, and a dozen New York thugs sat around a folding table drinking bad coffee, celebrating their successful terror campaign against the untouchable Chicago syndicate.
At the center of the room sat Vince Marino—a slick, silver-haired boss in an expensive white suit, laughing as he tossed Audrey Miller’s stolen leather briefcase up in the air and caught it.
“I told you,” Vince grinned at his lieutenants. “Cross thinks he’s a corporate CEO now. He’s gone soft. He thinks hiding behind legitimate shipping manifests makes him bulletproof. Smashing his little accountant’s face in was the wake-up call he needed to hand over the port operations.”
Before one of his capos could laugh in agreement, the heavy steel roll-up garage door at the front of the warehouse exploded inward with a deafening, metallic crash.
Chains wrapped around the bumper of a black Ford F-350 ripped the massive door completely off its industrial tracks, sending tons of corrugated steel smashing onto the concrete floor. Dust, smoke, and freezing morning air rushed into the room.
Through the gaping hole walked Adrian Cross.
He wasn't wearing his overcoat anymore. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark tactical trousers, and leather boots. In his right hand, he carried a customized, suppressed SIG Sauer MPX submachine gun. Behind him, emerging from the gray fog like ghosts of vengeance, came forty of Chicago’s most ruthless, heavily armed enforcers, blocking every exit and sealing the perimeter.
Vince Marino scrambled backward out of his chair, knocking it over onto the floor, his face draining of all color.
“Cross?!” Vince choked out, his hand frantically reaching for the pearl-handled revolver holstered at his belt. “How the hell did you find us so fast?!”
Adrian did not break his stride. He walked with that slow, terrifying, measured gait across the blood-stained concrete, ignoring the panicked shouts of the New York thugs who tried to raise their weapons.
They didn't even get their safeties off.
Adrian’s enforcers opened fire with terrifying, clinical precision. Suppressed gunshots hissed through the cold air like angry serpents. Within ten seconds, half of New York’s elite enforcers were lying face down in the sawdust, bleeding out on the slaughterhouse floor.
Vince Marino froze, his hand hovering over his holster, realizing that drawing his weapon meant immediate execution.
Adrian stopped five feet away from the New York boss. He slowly raised the barrel of his submachine gun, resting the cold steel against the center of Vince Marino’s forehead.
“You sent two men to break my accountant’s nose,” Adrian said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection, carrying the terrifying stillness of a frozen lake.
Vince swallowed hard, sweat beading heavily on his forehead. “It—it was just business, Cross! A territorial dispute! We didn't know she meant anything to you! She’s just a secretary!”
“She is not a secretary,” Adrian corrected softly, pressing the barrel a fraction deeper into Vince’s skin. “She is the architect of my peace. She organizes my world so I don't have to spend my days wiping filth like you off the pavement.”
“Take the ports!” Vince shrieked, dropping to his knees on the concrete, tears streaming down his face. “Take the shipping lanes! Take everything we have in the Midwest! Just don't kill me!”
Adrian looked down at the whimpering New York boss with profound, chilling disgust.
“I don't want your ports, Vince,” Adrian whispered. “I already own them. I came for two things.”
He gestured with his chin toward the folding table.
One of Adrian’s enforcers stepped forward, snatching Audrey’s stolen leather briefcase off the table and checking the clasp before handing it to his boss.
“That’s one,” Adrian said, tucking the briefcase under his arm. “And the second?”
Vince looked up, confused and terrified. “What’s the second?”
“Insurance,” Adrian replied.
He pulled the trigger twice.
May you like
The suppressed hiss-hiss echoed through the massive cold-storage room as Vince Marino collapsed backward into the sawdust, lifeless before he hit the ground. Adrian did not even blink. He turned on his heel, gesturing to his men to secure the warehouse and incinerate the contraband.
“Burn it to the ground,” Adrian ordered over his shoulder as he walked out into the crisp Chicago morning. “Leave nothing for the feds.”
