Chapter 4 - The Harbor Raid
The rain came down in sheets, turning the Port of Chicago into a maze of slick, black asphalt and towering shipping containers that loomed like metal monoliths in the darkness.
Cassandra wore a skin-tight tactical suit, a lightweight bulletproof vest, and a suppressed Glock 19 tucked into her hip holster. She was no longer the waitress from Rini’s; she was the apex predator Langley had spent millions of dollars to create.
Beside her, Frank and four of Marcus’s most trusted operators checked their weapons, their faces tight with nerves. They were street soldiers, used to drive-by shootings and back-alley executions. They weren't prepared for the cold, silent efficiency of a military-grade extraction.
"Stay behind me," Cass whispered through the throat-mic comms system. "If you fire a shot without my command, I will leave you here. Do you understand?"
"Copy that, Boss," Frank muttered, his usual bravado completely gone.
They moved through the southern perimeter of Warehouse 14, where the Volzhsky’s manifest indicated the anti-aircraft systems were being stored. The area was guarded by two Russian sentries, men in heavy, dark raincoats carrying short-barreled AK-74Us. They were walking a standard three-minute patrol pattern, their cigarettes glowing faintly in the downpour.
Cass didn't hesitate. She stepped out from behind a stack of lumber, her movements completely silent despite the wet ground. She closed the distance to the first sentry before he could even turn his head toward the sound of the rain. Her left arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his airway instantly, while her right hand drove a combat knife upward through the base of his skull. He died without making a sound.
The second sentry turned, his eyes widening as he saw his partner collapse, but Cass was already dropping to one knee. Her suppressed Glock coughed twice—two soft clicks that sounded like nothing more than a car door closing in the distance. The rounds struck him perfectly between the eyes, his body tumbling backward into a puddle of greasy water.
"Move in," Cass signaled to Frank’s team.
Inside the warehouse, the air was cold and filled with the smell of cosmoline and wet wood. In the center of the floor stood three massive wooden crates, their lids already pried loose. Inside were the sleek, green tubes of Strela-3 man-portable air-defense systems—weapons that could bring down a commercial airliner or a police helicopter with a single pull of the trigger.
"Oh, Jesus," Frank whispered, staring into the crates. "The Vicaris weren't playing around. This would have turned the South Side into a warzone."
"Set the thermite charges," Cass ordered, her eyes tracking the dark catwalks that ran along the upper level of the building. "We have three minutes before the shift change."
Before Frank could pull the incendiary devices from his pack, the massive floodlights mounted on the ceiling suddenly flared to life, blinding them in a harsh, white glare.
"I expected better from you, Cassandra," a loud, booming voice echoed from the upper deck.
Ilya Rostova stepped out onto the metal catwalk, flanked by a dozen heavily armed men. He was older now, his hair completely grey, but his face carried the same cruel, mocking smile that had haunted Cass’s nightmares for half a decade. He wasn't holding a rifle; he was holding a small electronic detonator.
May you like
"You always were too sentimental about your teams," Rostova shouted down, his accent thick and heavy. "You brought street thugs to a professional execution. Say goodbye to your new friends, my dear."
He pressed the button.
