Chapter 6 - NIGHT AT THE FOUNDRY
The northern district was a graveyard of rusted steel and abandoned factories.
At the center of it lay the Old Iron Foundry—a sprawling, six-story industrial nightmare that had served as Osgood Trant’s fortress for over a decade.
Rain fell in heavy, blinding sheets, rattling against the corrugated tin roofs. Inside the foundry’s main office, Trant sat at a heavy steel desk, swirling a glass of cheap bourbon.
Across from him, Sloan Vance was pacing back and forth, her high heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. She had traded her ruined white dress for a sharp trench coat, but her eyes were bloodshot, her platinum hair disheveled.
"The district attorney released my bank records!" Sloan hissed, slamming her purse onto the desk. "My accounts are frozen, Trant! The press is outside my apartment! August is destroying me!"
"Shut up, Sloan," Trant snapped, not even looking at her. "Your press problems are minor. My men in Seattle just called. The kid wasn't in the apartment."
Sloan froze. "What do you mean he wasn't there?"
"I mean Farley played us!" Trant roared, throwing his glass against the wall, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. "He moved the boy before we even made a move! He anticipated every damn step!"
"Then we leave!" Sloan said, her voice rising in panic. "We take the cash from the safe and get on a boat to Montreal! August is going to come here, Trant!"
"Let him come!" Trant growled, pulling a heavy shotgun from beneath the desk. "This entire foundry is rigged! I have twenty men on the upper gantries with automatic rifles. If Farley steps through those gates, he steps into a kill zone. He won't leave this building alive."
Suddenly, the heavy steel doors at the far end of the warehouse didn't open—they exploded inward.
A deafening roar shattered the rain, followed by the blinding glare of high-intensity floodlights mounting on three dark tactical vehicles that rammed through the outer security gates.
"He's here!" a guard screamed from the gantry before a single, silenced gunshot dropped him from a height of thirty feet.
Chaos erupted instantly.
August’s men poured into the foundry with military precision. They did not spray bullets wildly like Trant’s thugs; they moved in synchronized squads, sweeping the gantries with suppressed rifles, cutting down Trant’s ambush before it could even organize.
In the center of the storm walked August.
He carried no heavy rifle, only a dark pistol held at his side. He wore his long coat over his vest, moving through the rain of sparks and falling metal as if he were taking a midnight stroll through a garden.
Every time a shooter targeted him, Gabriel or another loyal enforcer eliminated the threat before a bullet could touch his coat.
Trant watched from the upper office window, his face contorted in disbelief and rage. "Rook! Take the remaining men and hit him from the flank!"
Rook, who was standing in the doorway with two heavily armed soldiers, looked down at the courtyard. He saw August’s men systematically taking control of every exit, every high point, every tactical position. He saw August looking up directly at the office window, his eyes cold, clear, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
Rook dropped his rifle.
"What are you doing, you coward?!" Trant screamed.
"I'm living," Rook said simply. "He let me walk this morning because of nine years of service. If I shoot at him tonight, he won't stop until my entire family is buried."
Rook turned and ran out the back exit, followed by his men.
"Rook!" Trant shrieked, but it was too late.
The office doors were kicked off their hinges with a thunderous crash.
Gabriel stepped inside first, sweeping the room with his weapon. Behind him came August.
Sloan let out a muffled scream, backing into the corner behind Trant’s desk.
Trant raised his shotgun, his hands shaking violently with rage and fear. "Stay back, Farley! I'll blow you to pieces!"
August didn't stop walking. He stepped into the room, his eyes fixed on Trant.
"You targeted a family member, Osgood," August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You broke the code that kept this city from turning into ash."
"Code?!" Trant yelled, tears of rage springing to his eyes. "You threw away your empire for a beggar! You ruined us all for a woman who sleeps in a van!"
August reached out with incredible swiftness, grabbing the barrel of Trant’s shotgun, twisting it upward as Trant pulled the trigger. The blast blew a hole into the ceiling plaster.
In one fluid motion, August disarmed Trant, struck him across the jaw with the heavy steel barrel, and pinned him against the desk, holding a cold blade against Trant’s throat.
Trant gasped for air, his eyes wide with the sudden realization of his complete defeat.
"Please..." Trant whimpered, the bravado completely gone. "August... we've known each other for twenty years..."
"And for twenty years, you've been a disease," August whispered into his ear. "I leave you alive tonight, Trant, not because you deserve it, but because death is too quick for what you owe."
August pulled back, signaling Gabriel.
"The federal authorities are outside," August said coldly. "They have the records of your illegal weapons trafficking, your extortion, and your human smuggling. You will spend the rest of your pathetic life inside a six-by-eight cell."
August turned his gaze to Sloan, who was crouching in the corner, sobbing hysterically.
May you like
"And you, Sloan," August said, looking down at her with pure indifference. "Your assets are seized. Your reputation is gone. By tomorrow, every news station in the country will cover your arrest for money laundering. You wanted fame, Sloan. Now you have it."
He turned his back on them both, walking out of the ruined office as the sirens of fifty police cruisers began to wail in the rain outside.
