Chapter 7 - The Trap at Lawrence Runway
The rain turned to sleet as we raced north along Route 93 toward the private airfield in Lawrence.
The strategy worked with absolute precision. Just as predicted, the federal raid on the Mystic Wharf had descended like a hammer, throwing the entire Falcone operation into complete disarray. Dante Falcone, realizing that his empire was crumbling around him, had abandoned his soldiers and fled north in a convoy of two black Cadillacs, desperate to reach his private jet before the federal noose tightened.
At 5:30 PM, the black Cadillacs screeched onto the tarmac of the Lawrence municipal airfield.
A small twin-engine private jet was already idling on the runway, its turbine engines screaming against the icy wind.
Dante Falcone—a heavy-set, silver-haired man in his late fifties with a face carved by decades of violence—stepped out of the lead Cadillac, flanked by four armed bodyguards carrying automatic rifles.
“Get the bags loaded!” Dante shouted over the roar of the jet engines. “The feds are twenty minutes behind us!”
Before his men could reach the boarding stairs, four heavy armored Vance SUVs burst through the airfield gates, their high-beam headlights slicing through the darkness and blinding the tarmac.
The SUVs executed a sharp tactical formation, completely blocking the runway and boxing the Cadillacs in.
“Drop your weapons!” Frank’s voice boomed through an external loudspeaker. “You are completely surrounded!”
Falcone’s bodyguards raised their rifles, but before a single shot could be fired, the sharp crack of sniper fire echoed from the airfield hangars. Two of Falcone’s guards took non-lethal rounds to their shoulders, dropping their weapons and collapsing to the tarmac with groans of agony.
The remaining two guards immediately threw their weapons down and raised their hands in surrender.
Dante Falcone stood alone on the wet asphalt, rain drenching his tailored coat, his chest heaving with fury.
I stepped out of the lead SUV, walking calmly through the glare of the headlights.
“Dante,” I greeted him, stopping five paces away.
Dante glared at me with pure hatred. “Roman Vance. You arrogant son of a bitch. You sold me out to the feds!”
“You made a deal with a snake in my house,” I said, my voice level and unbothered by the freezing rain. “You agreed to murder my pregnant wife and my unborn child in exchange for twenty percent of my shipping lanes. Did you really think you would walk away from that?”
Dante’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Your wife? Julian told me she was already dead! He told me she died in an abortion clinic in New York months ago!”
The depth of Julian’s web of lies was staggering. He had lied to Claire, lied to me, and lied to his own co-conspirators, manipulating every single person to ensure nobody compared notes until it was too late.
“Julian lied to you, Dante,” I said coldly. “Just like he lied to everyone else. But your ignorance doesn't absolve your treason.”
Dante reached for the small revolver concealed inside his waistband.
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I didn't even flinch. Frank stepped in from the side, striking Dante across the face with the butt of his sidearm. The older mob boss went down hard onto the wet tarmac, spitting blood onto the ice.
“Tie him up,” I ordered Frank. “Bring him to the South Boston warehouse alongside Julian. It’s time for a family reunion.”
