Chapter 4 - The Meatpacking Plant
At eleven o’clock that night, a heavy rain began to fall over the industrial district of Cicero.
The abandoned meatpacking plant sat like an iron carcass against the dark sky, surrounded by rusty rail tracks and high chain-link fences. Steam rose from sewer grates, and the distant hum of the interstate blended with the patter of rain against corrugated tin roofs.
Inside the freezer room on the third floor, Leo Vance sat chained to a steel pipe. His face was bruised, his lips chapped and blue from the biting cold, his left hand wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked rags where his pinky finger used to be.
Standing near the heavy steel freezer door was Mario Falcone—a greasy thirty-year-old man in an expensive mink coat, sipping bourbon from a glass while four heavily armed guards leaned against meat hooks.
“Your old man better come through tonight, kid,” Mario sneered, kicking Leo’s boot with his Italian leather shoe. “At midnight, Victor opens Damian Cross’s gate. By one in the morning, Damian Cross is dead in his bed, and I control the shipping docks. If your father backs out… well, you won't live to see sunrise.”
Leo spat a mouthful of blood onto the frost-covered floor. “Damian Cross… will tear you apart, Mario…”
Mario laughed, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. “Damian Cross is a dinosaur. He thinks loyalty means something in this city. He doesn't realize that everyone has a price.”
Suddenly, the lights inside the freezer flickered once.
Then went completely black.
The heavy hum of the refrigeration units died instantly, replaced by a sudden, terrifying silence.
“What the hell?” Mario barked, pulling a gold-plated pistol from his coat. “Hey! Check the generator downstairs!”
Before his guards could move, a muffled sound came through the heavy steel door—a rapid sequence of dull thuds, followed by the sound of bodies hitting the concrete hallway outside.
“Positions!” Mario yelled, his voice instantly losing its arrogant edge. “Cover the door!”
Two guards raised their submachine guns, aiming at the heavy steel handle of the freezer door.
BOOM!
The heavy steel door didn't just open—it was blown off its hinges by a breach charge, flying inward and crushing one of the guards against the wall with a sickening crunch.
Through the cloud of white smoke and dust, flashlight beams cut through the dark.
Damian Cross stepped into the freezer room.
He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, a Kevlar vest, and held a suppressed assault rifle. Behind him came Marcus and six men, moving with lethal, military precision.
Before the remaining guards could fire, suppressed shots echoed through the cold room.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
The three guards collapsed to the frost-covered floor without firing a single round.
Mario Falcone scrambled backward, dropping his bourbon glass, his gold-plated gun shaking violently in his hands as he backed against the frozen meat hooks. “Cross! How… how did you find this place?!”
Damian walked slowly through the smoke, his boots crushing glass shards on the floor. He didn't look at Mario. He looked at Leo Vance, bound and shivering against the steel pipe.
“Marcus,” Damian ordered calmly. “Cut the boy loose and get him to the medic in the van.”
“Yes, boss,” Marcus stepped forward, using bolt cutters to snap Leo’s chains, hoisting the weak young man onto his shoulders.
Leo looked up at Damian through swollen eyes, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on his face. “Mr. Cross… I’m sorry… I ruined everything…”
“Save your energy, kid,” Damian said softly, laying a heavy hand on Leo’s head. “Your father is waiting for you outside.”
As Marcus carried Leo out into the hallway, Damian turned his full attention to Mario Falcone, who was cowering against the wall, clutching his gold pistol like a toy.
“You took a boy over a gambling debt, Mario,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a register that sounded like grinding stones. “You mutilated him. And then you tried to use his father to put a knife in my back.”
“Damian! Listen to me!” Mario stammered, sweat breaking out across his forehead despite the freezing temperature. “It wasn't my idea! My uncle—old man Falcone—he ordered it! He’s the one who wanted your estate! I was just following orders!”
Damian stepped closer, stepping inside the range of Mario’s trembling gun. He reached out with his bare left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gold pistol, and slowly bent Mario’s wrist upward until the weapon pointed harmlessly at the ceiling.
“Tell your uncle,” Damian whispered directly into Mario’s ear, “that his strike team at my North Gate is already dead. And tell him that Chicago belongs to the Cross family.”
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Damian didn't shoot Mario. He simply struck him across the temple with the heavy butt of his rifle, sending the man crashing unconscious onto the bloody frost.
“Leave him,” Damian told his men. “Let him wake up alone in the dark. He’ll deliver my message to his uncle far better than a corpse ever could.”
