Chapter 7 - The Queensboro Transit
Five minutes later, the private subterranean garage beneath Marchetti Tower was alive with the low, thundering roar of heavy eight-cylinder engines.
Three armored black Cadillac Escalades sat idling in a diamond formation on the polished concrete, their high-intensity running lights cutting through the exhaust mist. Eight men in tailored charcoal suits and tactical vests stood in synchronized readiness, checking the slides of their suppressed sidearms, their faces carved from stone.
Lucas stepped off the private elevator into the garage.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his fitted black trousers, his open-collar white shirt, and a heavy, dark charcoal cashmere overcoat that fell past his knees. In his right hand, he held his customized Kimber .45, checking the chamber with a single, practiced flick of his thumb before holstering the weapon beneath his left armpit.
Beside him walked Jack, his chief of private operations.
"We have the address, Boss," Jack reported, his voice low, matching his stride to Lucas’s heavy, purposeful steps. "A four-story walk-up off Thirty-First Avenue in Astoria. Near the elevated train tracks. The building is registered to an anonymous holding company owned by the Romano trust."
Lucas’s jaw tightened, the black cross on his neck standing out sharp against his pale skin. "The Romano trust."
"Yes, Boss," Jack nodded grimly. "They didn't just hide her. They kept her in an apartment they owned, monitoring her utility records, making sure she never had enough money to hire a lawyer or buy a plane ticket."
"Who is watching the building right now?"
"Two men from the Romano southern crew," Jack answered, opening the heavy, armored rear door of the lead Escalade. "Stationed in a gray sedan across the street. They think it's a routine surveillance rotation."
Lucas stopped at the door of the vehicle.
He looked back toward the private elevator bank. On the sixty-fifth floor, his daughter was wrapped in cashmere, eating warm soup, finally safe behind thirty tons of ballistic steel and twenty armed loyalists.
He looked down at his right hand.
The worn gold ring was resting securely on his own left pinky finger—a blood covenant returned to its rightful owner.
"Nobody uses firearms inside that building, Jack," Lucas commanded, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "My wife is sick. I will not have gunsmoke in her room."
"Understood, Don Lucas."
"And the two men in the gray sedan?"
Lucas climbed into the rear leather seat, his eyes turning to pure, unmitigated slate.
"Put them in the river."
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The heavy armored doors slammed shut with a concussive, pressurized thud.
The three black vehicles accelerated smoothly up the concrete ramp, exploding out into the torrential Manhattan rain, their red taillights reflecting off the wet asphalt as they cut through the traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, heading east into the storm.
