Chapter 7 - The Airstrip Trap
The Gary, Indiana private airstrip was a desolate stretch of cracked asphalt surrounded by rusting hangars and snow-covered trees. The wind whipped violently off Lake Michigan, carrying a bitter, freezing fog that obscured visibility beyond fifty yards.
A silver luxury limousine pulled onto the tarmac, followed by two black SUVs. The vehicles came to a stop near an old, dimly lit hangar. The engines idle softly, exhaust fumes rising like thick white clouds into the freezing night air.
Inside the hangar, Roman Mercer stood in the shadows near the second-floor observation deck, looking down through a cracked glass pane. Beside him, bound and gagged, sat Marcus, Katherine, and Julian. All three were trembling—partly from the freezing cold, but mostly from absolute terror.
Below on the hangar floor, twenty of Roman’s elite soldiers were concealed behind heavy wooden crates, fuel drums, and armored trucks, their rifles trained on the entrance.
The limousine door opened. A tall, elderly man in a fur-trimmed coat stepped out, holding a thick silver cane. Don Domenico Moretti looked around the quiet tarmac, his sharp eyes squinting through the fog. Four heavily armed guards surrounded him immediately, their hands resting on hidden submachine guns.
"Julian!" Moretti called out, his raspy voice cutting through the wind. "Where are you? Why is this place pitch black?"
No answer came from the darkness.
Moretti frowned, tapping his cane against the asphalt. "Something isn't right. Get back in the car."
Before his guards could turn back toward the limousine, the heavy metal doors of the hangar slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang. Floodlights mounted along the roof snapped on all at once, blinding Moretti and his men in a harsh, white glare.
"Domenico Moretti," Roman’s voice boomed over the hangar’s public address system, clear and deadly. "You traveled a long way from New York just to do business in the dark."
Moretti shielded his eyes, looking up toward the observation deck. "Mercer? That’s impossible! Julian swore you were dead!"
"Julian was a bad investment," Roman replied as he stepped out onto the metal catwalk overlooking the floor, holding a microphone in one hand and his Kimber pistol in the other. He gestured behind him, and Viktor dragged Julian, Marcus, and Katherine to the railing, pushing them down onto their knees where Moretti could see them clearly.
Moretti’s face hardened. He realized in an instant that he had walked directly into a slaughterhouse. "You think you can execute me, Roman? My family will burn Chicago to the ground!"
"Your family won't even know where your body is buried, Domenico," Roman said coldly. "You targeted my home. You put poison on my dinner table. You made my three-year-old daughter fear for her life."
"It was business!" Moretti shouted, trying to maintain his dignity despite the twenty red laser dots appearing on his chest. "In our world, power goes to whoever takes it!"
"In my world," Roman countered, "power belongs to whoever protects their family. And you tried to destroy mine."
Roman gave a simple hand gesture.
"Wait—!" Moretti screamed.
A hail of silenced gunfire filled the hangar. The sound was like a sharp, rhythmic tearing of paper. Within three seconds, Moretti and his four bodyguards collapsed onto the concrete floor, motionless.
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.
Up on the catwalk, Katherine let out a muffled scream behind her rag gag, her eyes wide with horror as she stared at the lifeless body of the New York Don. Julian broke into hysterical sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he pressed his forehead against the cold metal flooring. Marcus simply stared straight ahead, knowing his turn was next.
Roman turned around to face the three traitors.
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"You three thought Moretti was going to make you rich," Roman said, dropping the microphone onto the floor. "You thought you were smarter than everyone else. But you forgot one simple rule: loyalty isn't just a word in this family. It’s the only thing keeping you alive."
He looked at Viktor. "Put them in the back of the van. We’re going to the docks."
