Chapter 9 - Hangar 4
The municipal airport sat on a flat expanse of reclaimed marshland on the edge of the bay. Fog rolled off the dark water, wrapping around the high wire fences and bright security floodlights in thick, drifting clouds.
Inside Hangar 4, the low, powerful whine of a Gulfstream G550’s auxiliary power unit echoed off the corrugated steel walls.
Marco Calibrazi stood near the boarding stairs of the jet, wearing a tailored charcoal suit and a heavy leather coat. He was fifty-two, with slicked-back grey hair, sharp hawk-like features, and a permanent, cynical sneer that had earned him a reputation as one of the most ruthless operators in the regional syndicate.
He was looking at his luxury gold wristwatch, tapping his foot impatiently on the polished concrete floor.
“Where is the transfer?” Marco demanded, turning to his chief technician, who was sitting at a portable satellite rig set up on a folding table beside the plane’s landing gear. “You said the connection was made twenty minutes ago!”
“The upload dropped at eighty-seven percent, sir,” the technician replied nervously, his fingers flying across his laptop keyboard. “The local line at the Gallow estate went dark. It looks like the server hardware was physically severed from the terminal end.”
Marco cursed in Italian, kicking the metal leg of the folding table. “What about the hit team? Did they confirm Gallow’s death?”
“No response from Team Alpha, sir. All six radio channels went silent five minutes after entry.”
Marco’s face darkened. A cold realization began to settle in his gut. He reached into his coat pocket for his phone, intending to call his secondary cell in Milan to order an immediate lockdown of his local safe houses.
Before his fingers could touch the screen, a high-pitched POP echoed through the massive hangar.
The technician sitting at the laptop suddenly pitched forward, his head slamming onto the keyboard with a wet thud, a tiny hole drilled clean through the side of his skull.
Marco froze, his heart slamming into his ribs.
“Guards!” Marco screamed, drawing his nickel-plated Beretta from his belt. “Guards!”
From the shadow of the hangar’s massive sliding doors, three dark figures stepped into the floodlights.
Victor was on the left, holding a suppressed assault rifle. On the right was another enforcer.
And walking down the center aisle, between the rows of parked aviation fuel drums, was D’Angelo Gallow.
He wore no coat, only his wet, blood-stained dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a heavy pistol held loosely in his right hand. He walked with a slow, deliberate pace, his boots clicking on the concrete, totally indifferent to the three bodyguards who were now frantically trying to raise their weapons.
POP! POP! POP!
Victor and the second enforcer fired with terrifying precision. Marco’s three bodyguards went down in less than two seconds, their bodies dropping to the floor like sacks of wet flour before they could even align their sights.
Marco was left standing alone beside the stairs of his jet, his hands trembling as he aimed his Beretta at D’Angelo’s chest.
“D’Angelo…” Marco gasped, his voice cracking as he took a step back against the metal stairs. “D’Angelo, wait! Listen to me! It was a business decision! Purely business!”
D’Angelo stopped ten feet away. He didn't raise his gun. He just stood there, looking at the older man with eyes that were utterly dead.
“You brought a maid into it, Marco,” D’Angelo said, his voice flat and echoing in the high ceiling of the hangar. “You brought my home into it.”
“I can pay you!” Marco shouted, tears of pure terror welling in his eyes as he saw the absolute lack of mercy on D’Angelo’s face. “Double whatever you think you lost! I have thirty million in gold reserves in Genoa! I can transfer the bearer bonds right now!”
“You offered my fiancée ten million for my life,” D’Angelo said quietly. “You overpaid. My life isn't worth ten million.”
He raised the pistol.
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“It’s priceless.”
BANG.
