Chapter 3 - Breach at Reno Industrial
The Reno Industrial yard was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering crane gantries, and industrial shredders that hummed with a low, bone-deep bass vibration even at three in the morning.
Dominic’s convoy slipped through the automated security gate—which Vic had forced using a portable electronic override—and fanned out into the central courtyard.
Twelve black SUVs formed a crescent around the main processing facility, their doors snapping open simultaneously. Thirty elite enforcers, clad in tactical black gear and equipped with suppressed carbines, fanned out into the shadows like ghosts.
"Vic, take the west loading dock. Clear the secondary offices," Dominic ordered, stepping out of the Maybach into the freezing wind. He racked the slide of a customized SIG Sauer P226 with a sharp, metallic clack. "I want the main shredder floor. Nobody fires unless they have a clear shot at the hostage."
"Boss," Marcus whispered from the open door of the car, clutching the edges of his oversized jacket. "The... the entrance isn't through the front doors. The front doors have trip wires. I saw the watchman go inside through the steam tunnel grate behind the water tower."
Dominic stopped, turning back to the boy. He stared at Marcus for a long moment, reassessing every instinct that told him to leave the child in the car.
"Show me," Dominic said.
With Marcus leading the way, weaving through stacks of rusted steel drums and discarded automotive chassis with the instinct of a feral cat, Dominic and his personal vanguard bypassed the primary security traps entirely.
They dropped down through a rusted maintenance hatch behind the water tower, landing silently on the concrete floor of the sub-level steam tunnels. The air here was hot, thick with the smell of sulfur, ozone, and old grease.
"Through there," Marcus pointed toward a heavy louvered vent that looked out onto the main industrial floor above. "That’s where they take the crates when they're running the graveyard shift."
Dominic crept forward, pressing his eye to the slats of the vent.
Below them stretched a cavernous room dominated by a massive, jaw-like industrial compactor—a machine designed to crush cars into cubes of scrap metal. Standing near the control console were three armed men wearing the insignia of the Salieri family.
And tied to a folding chair beside a steel pillar, wearing a pink pajama top and clutching her bare foot, was Rosalie.
She wasn't crying anymore. She looked exhausted, her small shoulders slumped, her blonde curls matted with sweat.
Dominic’s vision went entirely red. The man standing over her—a scarred enforcer named Vinnie Gallo—was holding a heavy iron wrench, laughing lazily as he tapped it against the concrete floor.
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"If Corsa doesn't call by four a.m., we feed the kid to the jaws and send him the digital file," Gallo barked to one of his subordinates. "Old man's probably weeping in his driveway right now like a bitch."
Dominic reached up, his fingers curling around the latch of the vent.
