Chapter 5 - The Bait at the Docks
Thursday morning arrived under a dark, bruising sky that promised heavy rain.
At 11:30 a.m., four heavy, black bulletproof SUVs pulled up to the front entrance of the Cross Estate. The engines idled with a deep, guttural rumble.
Frank Sterling stood near the open rear door of the lead vehicle, checking his tactical watch. He wore his heavy security coat, his broad leather wristband visible beneath his sleeve.
Damian walked down the front steps of the mansion, flanked by two guards. He was wearing a long black trench coat, his face set in a grim, distant expression.
“Everything is locked and loaded, boss,” Frank said, holding the door open for Damian. “Sixteen men in the convoy. We’ll be at Pier 42 in twenty minutes. The remaining twelve guards have taken up perimeter positions around the estate.”
Damian stopped at the door of the SUV. He looked Frank directly in the eyes.
“You’ve taken good care of this house, Frank,” Damian said, his voice strangely soft. “My father would have been proud of your loyalty.”
Frank’s eyes flickered with a brief, almost imperceptible flash of guilt, but his expression hardened instantly. “Just doing my duty, sir. Get inside. Weather’s getting ugly.”
Damian nodded, stepped into the back of the armored vehicle, and pulled the heavy reinforced door shut.
The four-vehicle convoy tore down the long cobblestone driveway, passed through the iron gates, and accelerated onto the highway heading south toward the Chicago industrial docks.
Standing near the gate control booth, Frank watched the taillights disappear into the gloom.
The moment the vehicles were out of sight, Frank pulled a secondary, encrypted satellite phone from his pocket and pressed a single speed-dial button.
“The eagle has left the nest,” Frank said into the receiver, his voice cold and emotionless. “Sixteen guards are with him. The mansion is completely exposed. Move your team in through the south gate now. And remember—bring the kid alive. Moretti wants her on camera before we bleed Damian Cross dry.”
Frank hung up the phone, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He turned and walked back toward the main house, pulling a suppressed nine-millimeter pistol from his shoulder holster.
He had no idea that the man sitting in the back of the lead SUV on the highway was not Damian Cross.
Ten miles away, inside the lead armored vehicle, the man in the black trench coat pulled off his dark sunglasses and heavy hat. It was Marcus—Damian’s chief body double, a former intelligence operative trained to mimic Damian’s posture and movements flawlessly.
And five miles behind them, hidden inside an unmarked moving van parked near the highway overpass, Vance sat at a high-tech communications console, watching thermal satellite feeds of Pier 42.
On the docks, Lorenzo Moretti’s primary hit squad of twenty mercenaries was currently crouching behind shipping containers, waiting to ambush the convoy.
Vance pressed a red button on her console.
“Ghost Three, Ghost Four... execute counter-ambush at Pier 42. Wipe them out.”
From the high crane towers overlooking the docks, four of Damian’s heavy snipers—equipped with suppressed, armor-piercing rifles—opened fire simultaneously.
Within forty-five seconds, without a single shot being fired in return, Lorenzo Moretti’s elite hit squad was completely neutralized, their bodies falling silently onto the cold concrete of the pier.
In the back of the moving van, Vance picked up her radio and called the Cross Estate.
“The docks are clear, boss,” Vance reported into her headset. “Moretti’s ambush team is eliminated. Frank has just ordered the south gate opened for the secondary strike team.”
Inside the dark, silent wine cellar beneath the mansion, Damian Cross stood in the shadows, holding a heavy tactical shotgun in his hands.
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He pulled the pump back with a sharp, terrifying CLACK.
“Let them in,” Damian whispered into his throat mic. “Welcome to the slaughterhouse.”
