Chapter 4 - The Fire in the Alley
At 8:00 AM the following morning, a light autumn rain misted over the gray concrete streets of South Chicago.
Three massive white supply trucks bearing the crest of the Vance Charitable Foundation rolled slowly down 47th Street, their amber warning lights flashing through the foggy morning air.
In the lead truck, Sarah Vance sat in the passenger seat, completely unaware that the route had been altered or that a high-stakes tactical ambush was unfolding around her. She was casually reviewing distribution lists on her clipboard, humming a soft melody.
As the convoy reached the intersection of 47th Street, a large orange construction barrier blocked the primary avenue, forcing the lead truck driver to turn left into the narrow, desolate alley between the two abandoned Miller Textile warehouses.
The moment the third truck entered the alley, a heavy steel garbage truck reversed out of a side loading bay, slamming into the rear of the convoy and blocking the exit completely.
Simultaneously, six dark sedans pulled out from the shadows of the front warehouse, blocking the alley’s entrance, trapping the three supply trucks in a tight, inescapable box.
Over twenty heavily armed men in dark jackets stepped out of the sedans, pulling assault rifles and submachine guns from their trunks.
At the front of the ambush team stood a tall, scarred man named Lorenzo Moretti—the younger brother of New York’s syndicate chief, and the primary coordinator of the regional alliance with Julian Cross.
Lorenzo walked forward with a cruel, arrogant smirk, swinging a heavy pistol in his hand.
“Get the woman out of the truck!” Lorenzo bellowed to his men. “Leave no witnesses! Make sure Roman Sokolov understands what happens when he crosses New York!”
Four armed men rushed toward the lead supply truck, grabbing the driver’s door and tearing it open.
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But instead of finding a terrified civilian driver and a helpless maid, the door swung open to reveal Viktor, wearing full heavy tactical armor, holding a combat shotgun.
“Morning, boys,” Viktor growled.
