The suppressed crack of a high-velocity rifle shattered the heavy, damp air of the Staten Island salvage yard.
A man in a cheap track suit dropped like a puppet with cut strings, his blood spraying across the rusted hood of a stripped-down sedan.
The tang of copper instantly mixed with the sharp, acidic bite of cordite and leaking transmission fluid.
Hayes moved through the shadowed garage with terrifying, mechanical fluidity.
His matte-black tactical boots crushed broken glass into dust.
Two more PMC operators flanked him, their rifles raised, sweeping the corners with laser-mounted precision.
The remnants of the Falcone family had attempted to consolidate their leadership in this garage.
They had brought duffel bags of cash, burner phones, and aggressive, panicked plans to find the ghosts who burned the Calabrese basement.
They didn't find the ghosts. The ghosts found them.
The garage went dead silent.
