It simply needed to be repurposed. Weaver. We have a tiny window of opportunity here, Arthur said rapidly, pointing at the decrypted phone. Russo's enforcer doesn't know Stanton wrecked the car, and he doesn't know Stanton was arresting a federal agent. He just knows a stop was made.
If we don't reply, Russo will assume Lorson is compromised and they will immediately burn the ledgers and vanish. What are you suggesting, Arthur? Weaver asked, narrowing his eyes. We reply as Lorson Arthur stated. A cold smile forming on his face.
We tell Vincent Moreno that the stop was a complete success. We tell him Stanton secured $3 million in cash from the silver Ferrari. But there's a problem. Tell him Stanton got spooked by local witnesses and stashed the duffel bags at the secondary dropoff point to avoid bringing it into the precinct. Lorson shook his head violently.
You're crazy. Vinnie Moreno doesn't play games. If he shows up to a drop and the money isn't there, he will start killing people. That is exactly the point. Arthur replied, his dark eyes locking onto the corrupt cop.
Where is the secondary dropoff point, James? When Lorson refused to speak, Arthur leaned in close, whispering directly into his ear. If you do not tell me right now, I will personally ensure you are placed in a maximum security general population block, and I will let everyone know you were the leak." Lawson swallowed hard, his eyes wide with genuine terror. Pier 47, old shipping warehouse, bay door number three, midnight, draped a heavy, freezing fog over the industrial waterfront of Chicago.
The rusted skeletal remains of ancient shipping cranes loomed in the darkness like mechanical ghosts, casting long, menacing shadows across the cracked concrete of Pier 47. The air smelled strongly of stagnant water, diesel fuel, and rotting kelp. Inside the massive, cavernous structure of warehouse B, total silence rained. The building had been abandoned for over a decade, its broken skylights allowing slivers of pale moonlight to cut through the oppressive gloom. Arthur Pendleton stood entirely still in the shadows of the catwalk, 30 ft above the concrete floor.
He was no longer wearing his expensive tailored suit. He was dressed in full tactical night ops gear, black ballistic vest, kevlar helmet, and specialized night vision goggles resting on his forehead. In his hands, he gripped a customized Heckler and MP5 submachine gun fully suppressed. Below him, perfectly positioned in the center of the warehouse floor under a single dim utility light, sat three large, heavyduty black duffel bags. They were stuffed entirely with phone books and bundled newspaper designed to perfectly mimic the weight and shape of $3 million in elicit cartel cash.
Ghost won. In position, Arthur whispered into his throat microphone, his voice barely a breath. Ghost 2, secure at the northern perimeter, came the crackling reply of a sniper nested on a neighboring rooftop. Command is online. Weaver's voice buzzed quietly in Arthur's earpiece from the mobile command center parked 3 mi away.