Lawson's phone just received a ping. Vincent Moreno's vehicle is approaching the primary gate. Two SUVs, heavy thermal signatures. Looks like they brought a small army. Stay sharp, Arthur.
We only get one shot at taking Moreno alive. Arthur slowed his breathing, regulating his heart rate to a steady, calm rhythm. He watched through the broken windows as the headlights of two matte black Cadillac Escalades cut through the fog, rolling silently toward bay door number three. The vehicles came to a halt. For two agonizing minutes, nothing happened.
The occupants were scanning the area, checking for traps, employing the paranoid caution that had kept Dominic Russo's syndicate out of federal prison for a decade. Finally, the doors of the lead SUV swung open. Four men stepped out, moving with strict militarystyle precision. They were heavily armed, carrying compact assault rifles and wearing lowprofile body armor beneath heavy winter coats. Then Vincent Vinnie Moreno emerged from the second vehicle.
Moreno was a terrifying figure in the Chicago underworld, a former special forces operative who had turned his talents toward organized crime. He was ruthless, highly intelligent, and famously paranoid. He walked toward the slightly agar door, sweeping the beam of a powerful tactical flashlight across the dark interior. "Clear the corners," Moreno commanded his men, his voice echoing off the corrugated steel walls. The four heavily armed foot soldiers fanned out, sweeping the lower floor of the warehouse while Moreno walked slowly toward the center of the room.
His eyes locked onto the three black duffel bags, sitting under the dim light. Arthur watched through his night vision optics, waiting for the perfect moment. The trap required Moreno to fully commit to the center of the room, isolating himself from the heavy cover of his armored vehicles outside. Moreno reached the bags. He knelt on the concrete, drawing a custom hunting knife from his belt.
He sliced open the zipper of the first bag and reached his gloved hand inside. He instantly felt the coarse texture of old phone book paper instead of wrapped $100 bills. Moreno froze. His combat instincts kicked in a split second before his brain fully processed the betrayal. "It's a trap!"
Marino roared, spinning around and raising his weapon toward the catwalks. Fall back. Fall back to the trucks. Execute. Arthur commanded into his radio, simultaneously dropping his night vision goggles over his eyes.
The warehouse erupted into blinding chaos. Six specialized highintensity strobe lights positioned around the perimeter of the room flashed simultaneously, temporarily blinding Moreno's men and disorienting their night vision. A rapid succession of deafening flashbang grenades detonated near the bay doors, completely cutting off their escape route to the Cadillacs. FBI, drop your weapons. Heavily armed tactical agents screamed from the shadows, swarming out from behind shipping containers and concrete pillars.