Chapter 6 - The Hell's Kitchen Audit
The rain in Manhattan was a torrential downpour, washing the grime of the city into the gutters of Hell's Kitchen. I stood on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse across the street from the St. Jude Medical Center—a front for the Luciano family’s illicit organ trafficking and illegal surgical operations.
I wore a black tactical uniform, my face obscured by the shadows of my hood. Through my high-powered night-vision optics, I could see two armed guards stationed at the rear service entrance of the clinic.
"Lorenzo, do you copy?" Hunter’s voice came through my encrypted earpiece, crystal clear despite the distance. She was sitting back at the safehouse, monitoring the satellite link I had established for her.
"I copy, Hunter. What do the thermal sensors say about the building’s interior?"
"There are seven distinct heat signatures on the ground floor," she reported, her voice remarkably calm as she read the technical data from the laptop interface. "Four are stationary in the central hallway—likely guards. Two are in the surgical bay to the left. One is moving slowly in the rear recovery room. That’s Julian. His thermal signature shows an elevated body temperature. He’s running a fever from the infection."
"Good," I muttered. "Keep an eye on the perimeter of the cabin. If any vehicle approaches within five miles, the automated system will alert you."
"Understood. Lorenzo... be careful. Silas is noted in the clinic’s logbook as the shift commander tonight. He’s inside that building."
A surge of protective instinct flared in my chest. Silas Vance. The man who had taken Hunter’s daughter from her, and the man who had helped butcher my wife.
"He’s a dead man walking, Hunter," I said, before cutting the audio link.
I dropped from the fire escape, moving through the rain like a shadow. The two guards at the rear entrance never even heard me approach. Two silenced rounds from my Beretta took them down before their bodies could strike the wet asphalt. I caught the door before it slammed shut, sliding inside the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the clinic.
The smell of antiseptic and stale blood filled the air.
I moved systematically through the corridors, neutralising the remaining guards with lethal efficiency. I wasn't here to negotiate; I was here to amputate a cancerous limb from my city.
I burst into the surgical recovery room. Dr. Julian Halloran lay on a motorized hospital bed, his shoulder heavily bandaged, an IV line dripping antibiotics into his arm. When he saw me step through the doorway, his pale face turned a horrific, translucent shade of gray.
"Lorenzo... please," he gasped, trying to reach for a panic button on the wall.
I fired a single round into the electronic control panel, destroying the call system. I walked over to the bed, grabbing him by the collar of his hospital gown and dragging his face within inches of mine.
"Where is the head of the Luciano family, Julian?" I growled, the barrel of my gun pressing into his throat. "Where is Vincent Luciano?"
"I don't know!" Julian sobbed, blood dripping from his cracked lips. "He doesn't call me directly! Everything went through Matteo! Matteo was the intermediary!"
"Matteo is dead," I stated coldly, referencing the underboss I had eliminated months earlier in the previous conflict. "Give me a name, Julian, or your medical license won't be the only thing that expires tonight."
"Silas!" Julian shrieked, his eyes bulging with terror. "Silas Vance has the direct encrypted comms link to Vincent! He’s in the basement office right now, finalizing the transfer of your asset ledger!"
Before I could turn toward the door, a heavy, iron-toed boot slammed into my ribs from behind, throwing me across the room into a metal tray of surgical instruments. The stainless-steel scalpels and clamps scattered across the floor with a deafening clatter.
I rolled onto my back, my hand reaching for my dropped weapon, but a large, scarred hand pinned my wrist to the floor.
Silas Vance stood over me. He was a massive, brutal specimen of a man, his face covered in crude tattoos, his eyes dead and unblinking. In his right hand, he carried a heavy iron crowbar.
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"Lorenzo Rossi," Silas sneered, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "The great Iron Don, brought down by a bunch of doctors and maids. Vincent is going to pay me a million dollars for your head."
He raised the crowbar, preparing to crush my skull.
