So the collapse wasn't entirely a lie, and Angelica was right to assume that Gerard would never let these tunnels go.
It's safer to push this stuff outside the city limits and then load a truck than to load up and try to drive it out. Wiser too.
"Ten meters to the exit ladder," the tech confirms.
Enzo checks the topside feed on his tablet and reports, "Unit three has a visual on the hatch. Street's still empty."
I exhale slowly. We're close.
Five more minutes and the Turks get their product.
Kemal's interpreter will confirm delivery, and I'll have one less knife aimed at my throat.
The couriers reach the ladder.
The first one climbs, his camera jerking with each movement.
Metal rungs flash in the headlamp beam.
He reaches the top and pushes the hatch open, and I watch as his breath fogs around the lens with every exhale into the cold night air.
The camera adjusts to the ambient light—streetlamps, a few lit windows, the dark outline of parked cars.
"Clear," the first courier whispers.
They emerge one by one and the tech comes up last, closing the hatch behind him.
The topside unit moves in from their position half a block down.
Four men in civilian clothes, faces obscured by scarves and low caps, converge on the couriers, and for a moment, the cameras show nothing but quick hand signals and synchronized movement.
The van pulls up—white paneling,Parish of San Giovannilogo on the side, license plates registered to a catering company we own through three shell corporations.
The driver stays behind the wheel while one of the unit opens the rear doors.
The couriers load the duffels and no words are exchanged, then the unit pulls back, and the van drives off at a leisurely pace—no rush, no reason for anyone to look twice.
"Package en route to destination," Enzo reports. He's already tracking the van on GPS. "ETA twelve minutes."
I check the time, ready to sign off and call this a success when I hear someone swearing.
"Fuck." The tech's voice cuts through the comms with a sharp, panicked tone.
I snap my attention back to the body cam feeds.
The topside unit is moving fast now.
The cameras show them breaking into a run.
"What's happening?" I demand.
"Contact," one of the unit leaders says, his breath ragged. "Multiple hostiles. East side of the street."
Gunfire erupts through the speakers.
I see muzzle flashes on the feed, the camera lurching as the wearer ducks behind a parked car.
And I hear shouting in Italian—voices I don't recognize.
