Chapter 7 - The Traitor’s Master Plan and the Impending Bloodbath
The drive from Queens into Manhattan was made in complete, suffocating silence. The sleet had coated the steel spans of the Queensboro Bridge in a treacherous layer of black ice, but our three-vehicle convoy moved at eighty miles an hour, tires screaming against the asphalt as we tore through the freezing fog over the East River.
Inside the command SUV, Tony was working feverishly on the encrypted radio network, trying to raise our family’s security liaisons stationed at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on the Upper West Side.
"Nothing, Boss," Tony said, slamming the headset onto the console. "Frequencies are completely jammed. Vance’s team is running a military-grade electronic blackout around a ten-block radius of the cathedral. Cell towers, police bands, private radios—everything is dead air."
"That means the trap is already sprung," I said, loading fresh magazines into my heavy leather bandolier. "The commission dinner started at seven. It’s seven-forty now. Vance won't detonate the catering trucks until the main toasts begin at eight o'clock, when all five bosses are seated at the primary dais."
I looked down at the tactical map spread across my knees. The cathedral’s undercroft was a subterranean labyrinth of Romanesque stone arches, crypts, and storage vaults dating back to the late nineteenth century. There were only three ways in: the main ceremonial staircase leading down from the nave, the service elevator used by the kitchen staff on Amsterdam Avenue, and an ancient coal chute connected to the defunct steam tunnels beneath 110th Street.
"Marco knows the security protocols," I told my team. "He’ll have Vance’s snipers covering the main stairs and the kitchen elevator. If we try to hit either entrance with force, they’ll trigger the charges early and bury two hundred people under three thousand tons of limestone."
"The coal chute?" Tony asked, his eyes widening. "Boss, that tunnel hasn't been opened since the seventies. It’s barely four feet wide, half-flooded, and runs right beneath the old crypts."
"It’s the only way in that Vance can't cover with a heavy machine gun," I replied. "And we have something Vance doesn't have."
I placed my hand on Bruno’s head. The dog looked up, his ears erect, his yellow eyes reflecting the green dashboard lights with an intelligence that went far beyond animal instinct.
"Bruno knows the scent of the explosive compound," I said. "He smelled the C4 in the Queens warehouse. He’ll find the primary detonation cords in the dark before they can flip the switch."
We killed our engines two blocks north of the cathedral, coasting into an abandoned delivery alley behind an old brownstone. The sleet was coming down sideways now, turning the streets into slush. We moved on foot, eight men in heavy tactical wool coats, submachine guns concealed beneath their frames, moving in a tight wedge formation behind Bruno.
The entrance to the old coal chute was hidden beneath a rusted iron grate behind an industrial trash compactor. Tony and two soldiers used crowbars to pry the heavy iron frame loose, the rusted hinges groaning softly beneath the roar of the wind.
The dark opening below smelled of stagnant water, rotting timber, and the sharp, unmistakable chemical tang of high-grade military explosives.
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Bruno didn't wait. He dropped into the four-foot drop without hesitation, landing softly in six inches of freezing mud and water, his low growl signaling that the path was clear.
"Follow the dog," I whispered, dropping down into the darkness. "Single file. Suppressors on. If it wears a serpent tattoo, put it in the dirt."
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