CHAPTER 14 THE RESCUE OPERATION #2
"Twenty minutes." Tommy shifted, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. "Dominic’s already there."
Marco cursed again, lower this time. "So we walk in with nothing? No explanation, no—"
"We walk in with a solution," Dario cut in. He stepped past Tommy into the safehouse, the scent of gun oil and stale coffee sharp in the air. Carmine stood at the table, a map of the docks spread out between two half-empty mugs.
"Tell me you have a way in," Dario said.
Carmine tapped the edge of the paper. "Depends. You want quiet or fast?"
"Both," Marco said from the doorway.
Carmine snorted. "Pick one."
Dario leaned over the map, tracing the route from the warehouse district to the old slaughterhouse. The place where Evelyn had last been seen. "Fast gets us there before the meet. Quiet keeps Vincent from hearing about it until it's done."
Tommy hovered at the edge of the table. "Quiet’s better."
Marco shot him a look. "You don’t get a vote."
"Neither do you," Dario said without looking up. He tapped the slaughterhouse. "Carmine. How many?"
"Best guess? Six, maybe seven."
"Human?"
Carmine’s mouth twisted. "Not all of them."
Dario straightened. "Then we go now. Vincent can wait."
Marco grabbed his arm. "You don’t get to make that call."
Dario didn’t pull away. "I just did."
For a long second, they stood locked in the silent battle that had defined twenty years of partnership—Marco’s caution against Dario’s certainty.
Finally, Marco released him. "Fine. But when this blows up in your face, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
Dario turned toward the door. "Tommy. Gear up."
Tommy didn’t hesitate. He was already reaching for the duffel by the couch.
Carmine flipped the map over, scribbling something on the back. "There’s a grate on the south side. Rusted out. Might get you in without tripping whatever the hell they’ve got watching the doors."
Dario took the paper. "Marco. You’re with me."
Marco rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "Fuck it. Let’s go get your ghost."
Outside, the wind kicked up, carrying the distant wail of a police siren. The operation was already in motion.
And Vincent Moretti was waiting.
Evelyn Crane pulled the duffel bag onto the counter, the zipper rasping as she opened it.
The small room was cluttered but functional, a rented space above a laundromat that smelled faintly of detergent and mildew.
She’d chosen it for its proximity—close enough to the Moretti warehouse to be useful, far enough to avoid attention.
The gate was a problem, and Dario had made it clear he didn’t trust her to handle it alone.
She didn’t trust him either, but that wasn’t the point. The point was being ready.
She laid out the supplies methodically, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.
Gauze, antiseptic, sutures, a small vial of morphine.
She’d learned the hard way that paranormal injuries didn’t always respond to traditional treatment, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.
The gate had already claimed one life tonight, and she wasn’t losing anyone else. Not if she could help it.
The door creaked open behind her, and she didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. The footsteps were heavy, deliberate, and she knew exactly who they belonged to. “You’re early,” she said, her voice calm as she continued arranging the supplies.
“You’re late,” Dario replied, his tone dry.
He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him.
His presence was like a shadow, filling the space without effort.
He didn’t touch anything, but his gaze swept over the counter, taking in the medical supplies with a practiced eye. “You think this is enough?”
“It’ll have to be,” Evelyn said, finally turning to face him. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
Dario’s expression didn’t change, but she could see the calculation in his eyes.
He was weighing her, assessing her readiness.
She hated that look—it made her feel like a problem to be solved, not a person to be trusted.
“The gate’s more than a door,” he said after a moment.
“It’s a test. And it doesn’t care how prepared you think you are.”
“Good thing I’m not planning to rely on preparation alone,” Evelyn shot back. She reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a small, worn journal, its pages filled with notes and diagrams. “I’ve been studying this thing for months. I know how it works.”
Dario’s gaze flicked to the journal, and for a moment, she thought she saw something like respect in his eyes.
But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same cool detachment.
“Knowing how it works isn’t the same as surviving it,” he said.
“You’re not the first person to think they’ve figured it out.”
“And yet here I am,” Evelyn said, her voice sharp. She wasn’t in the mood for his warnings, not when she had work to do. “If you’re just here to tell me I’m going to fail, save it. I’ve got enough to worry about without your pessimism.”
Dario didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate. He reached out and picked up the vial of morphine, turning it over in his hands. “This won’t work on them,” he said, his voice low. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” Evelyn said, her jaw tightening. “But it’ll work on us. And if things go south, I’d rather have it than not.”
Dario set the vial back down, his expression unreadable. “You’re taking a lot of risks,” he said. “More than you need to.”
“Says the man who’s spent his entire career bending the rules,” Evelyn countered. She met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. “You don’t get to lecture me about risk.”
For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent standoff. Then Dario nodded, a small, almost imperceptible acknowledgment. “Fine,” he said. “But when this goes sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Duly noted,” Evelyn said, turning back to the counter. She picked up a roll of gauze and began packing it into a smaller kit, her movements brisk. “Now, unless you’ve got something useful to add, I’ve got work to do.”
Dario didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered, watching her with that same calculating gaze. “You’re not the only one who wants this to work,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “But if you’re going to survive it, you need to be smarter than the gate.”
Evelyn paused, her hands stilling for a moment. Then she nodded, her expression grim. “I know,” she said. “And I will be.”
Dario didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Evelyn waited until she heard his footsteps fade before letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
She glanced down at the journal, her fingers brushing over the worn cover.
She’d been studying the gate for months, but Dario was right—it wasn’t just a door.
It was a test. And she wasn’t sure she was ready.
But she didn’t have a choice. The gate was waiting, and so was whatever lay beyond it. She just hoped she was prepared enough to face it.
Carmine Russo flicked his cigarette into the puddle near the warehouse loading dock, watching the ember hiss out. "You got five minutes before the guards rotate," he said, checking his watch. "And I didn't bring enough body bags for all of them."
Dario Vitale didn't look up from the lockpick in his hands. "Make it six."
"Fuck your six." Marco Bruno shifted his weight against the brick wall, the holster under his jacket creaking. "Moretti's boys don't take coffee breaks."
Carmine grinned, pulling a flare gun from his coat. "Then I'll give them a reason to." He cracked the cylinder open, checking the load. "Tommy still alive in there?"
"Alive enough to be a problem." Dario slid the lockpick into place. The mechanism clicked. "Vincent wants him dead before he talks. Dominic's already got a crew inbound."
Carmine snapped the flare gun shut. "So we're stealing Moretti's kill."
"We're extracting an asset." Dario pushed the door open a fraction, the dim light from inside slicing across his face. "Marco, watch the alley. Carmine—"
"Distraction time." Carmine was already moving, his boots splashing through the oily puddles toward the street.
The first flare arced over the chain-link fence, landing in the dumpster behind the warehouse. Orange light bloomed, throwing long shadows across the pavement. By the time the second flare hit the loading bay doors, the shouting had started.
Dario slipped inside.
The storage room smelled of damp cardboard and ammonia. Tommy Caruso was duct-taped to a metal chair in the center, his left eye swollen shut, his bottom lip split. The guard behind him had just turned toward the commotion outside when Dario broke his neck with a sharp twist.
Tommy wheezed through his broken nose. "Took you long enough."
Dario cut the tape with a switchblade. "Walk or bleed out. Choose fast."
Outside, Carmine's third flare hit a parked sedan. The fuel tank went up with a whoomph, glass shattering across the asphalt. Two Moretti enforcers bolted past the doorway, yelling about fire suppression.
Tommy staggered upright, clutching his ribs. "They got Anthony's ledger. I saw it."
Dario hauled him toward the back exit. "Where?"
"Vincent's safe. But Dominic—" Tommy coughed, spitting red. "He's got a buyer. Some banker from—"
The door burst open.
Dominic Moretti stood framed in the doorway, his Glock raised. "Consigliere." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You lost?"
Dario shoved Tommy behind a pallet of shrink-wrapped boxes. "Just cleaning up."
Carmine's diversion had bought them time, not an exit.
Dominic stepped forward, his shoes crunching on broken glass. "Vincent's gonna love this."
The new rule was simple: no witnesses.
Dario drew his own gun.
The warehouse air thickened with the acrid bite of burning plastic. Dominic’s Glock didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered toward the exit—just for a fraction of a second.
Tommy’s breath was a wet rattle. “He’s stalling,” he muttered.