As the crew connected large hoses to the tanker on one side, he darted out from the shadows on the other.
“Open the valves,” a man yelled.
He heard the sound of fluid being pumped into the tanker. The smell of gasoline was unmistakable. If they were filling it with gas, where was the cocaine being stored? In his time, crates of cocaine would enter inside cargo containers and then be loaded into the back of trucks and stored in suburban homes.
Jack rounded the tanker, coming face to face with one of them who was cranking a valve while the other two were working on the tanker. His eyes dropped to the shotgun. Before he could react, one of the other guys looked over. Jack didn’t hesitate, he unloaded a round into the guy’s chest knocking him back a foot, then rushed forward to take out the second. None of them were armed. This was unlike any operation he’d seen before — then again the feds had been cracking down on the import of drugs — they couldn’t exactly carry around assault rifles. The third guy tried to run but Jack shot him in the leg. He dropped, writhing in agony. Jack ambled over and pressed his foot down on the bloody portion, holding the barrel up to his face.
“Angelo. Where is he?”
His eyes darted to the building nearby. “In the warehouse.” His hands came up. “Please. Don’t…”
Another muzzle flash, and Jack put the guy out of his misery.
He glanced over to the warehouse. Lights flickered; the silhouettes of figures passed by the windows. Aware that time was ticking, he shut off the valve and disconnected the hose, then climbed up onto the tanker trailer. Staying low, he moved to the middle where there was a large manhole hatch. After opening it, he peered inside. Under the bright floodlights it was clear what Angelo was doing. He reached in and retrieved a brick of cocaine. They were using customized tankers, filling the lower half with gasoline and the upper half with cocaine. If stopped, it would be fairly easy to prove it was nothing more than gasoline. They wouldn’t even need to open the hatch on top, one of the side valves would offer ample proof, and the stench, well that offered the perfect cover. None of the men loading were carrying weapons so unless the cops had been tipped off, they wouldn’t even bat an eye. He had to admit, Angelo was ahead of the game.
After shutting the hatch he climbed down and got into the cab, and fired up the engine.
Jack was just about to pull out when he saw headlights wash over the warehouse from an approaching SUV. It pulled up, and three hulking guys hopped out. The rear door was pulled open and his stomach dropped. Dalton and Kelly were dragged from the vehicle, their hands in restraints. Two of the men shoved them forward while the third guy pulled wide a set of doors. Light split the darkness as the glow from inside illuminated them all.
“No. No!” he gritted his teeth and slammed a fist against the steering wheel. “Shit.”
The steady flutter of machines counting banknotes rang out a sweet chorus. Angelo stood on a steel catwalk high up in the warehouse overlooking a crew of underpaid immigrants. The warehouse was full of Chinese women and men in nothing more than underwear to reduce the likelihood of anyone stealing. In addition to this, armed men posted around the catwalk walked back and forth keeping tabs on the operation. The enterprise had been easy to set up. They were wrapping hundred dollar bills and inserting them into duffel bags. Those bags would then be taken to safe houses throughout the city. Fear of theft didn’t register in his mind. Unlike his father, he paid his guys handsomely to ensure their trust.
After dealing with Winchester, he’d returned to the city with the purpose of rebuilding his father’s empire and restoring the Gafino name to its rightful place — a family to be feared. Within weeks, word spread that Angelo was alive, and from that alone he caught the attention of those loyal to his father, but it was when he took over the Port of Newark that other five major crime families took notice.
He’d been in talks with the head of the Genovese family when word reached him of Winchester’s escape. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d considered it a possibility. Jack had nothing to lose. He’d stripped him of all that mattered. And, if anyone could escape, it would be him — but they had reassured him that wouldn’t happen.
He shouldn’t have trusted them.
Others might have fled, vanished from the city, but not him. Not anymore.
He hadn’t come this far to walk away now. And besides, Jack was nothing but a pawn to be toyed with; the man that once struck fear in the hearts of New Yorkers was a shell of his former self. He’d proven that.
Still, within hours of the news he’d arranged to get this last shipment of cocaine in before he dealt with the matter. That was before Romano’s Pizzeria. A nearby business owner had alerted him. Told him the cops had sealed off the place. That it was a bloodbath. It had all the marks of Jack. That was only confirmed when surveillance footage from a nearby business showed Jack arriving with two passengers. They were seen walking away moments before he attacked.
Angelo had his guys swoop in and pick them up.
They’d found them five blocks from the pizzeria, trying to hail a cab.
“Angelo,” Vito looked up at him from the ground below. “As you requested.”
He nodded as he made his way down. The female he was familiar with, he didn’t consider her a threat, more
