"Where are Salvatore's main hubs in New York?" I asked.
"Bronx casino. A pier in Staten Island." He pointed at the map. "His biggest spot is an estate in New Jersey—his arms cache and command center."
"Defense?"
"Tight." He said. "About fifty armed men, twenty-four-hour patrols. Open ground all around. Hard to sneak in."
I studied the map, mind racing. A full frontal assault would cost too many lives and probably draw the police down on us. Hit the edges and he'd think we were weak.
"We move tonight." I made the decision. "Target the Bronx casino. Artyom, you lead twenty men in a frontal push to drawattention. Two teams of ten will flank from the rear. I'll take snipers to the building across the street to clear their sentries."
"Don, that's reckless." Artyom frowned. "You should command from the back."
"I want Salvatore to know I'm avenging the dead," I said.
"Understood." He nodded, worry still in his eyes.
For the next few hours, we prepped weapons, ran routes, and drilled the plan. I checked my Glock 17, loaded mags, grabbed a spare, and the small knife in my boot.
We moved into the Bronx.
The casino sat on a busy block, lights blazing—one of Salvatore's cash cows.
I lay on the rooftop across the street and watched through the scope. Two guards at the door, three patrolling the roof. My finger rested on the trigger; my breathing steady.
"All teams, in position," I said into the comms.
"Team One ready," Artyom replied.
"Team Two ready."
"Go." The word came, and I gave the order.
I squeezed the trigger. The first rooftop guard dropped without a sound. Quick adjustments—second shot, third—and the roof was clear.
"Front cleared," I said. "Artyom, go."
Through the scope, I watched Artyom and his men kick the door. Almost at the same moment, an explosive detonated at the frame.
Then the casino erupted.
"Contact!" Artyom barked. "At least fifteen inside the main hall!"
"Team Two, hit the rear," I ordered, sweeping for new targets.
An Italian rushed to a window to take a shot. One bullet into his skull shattered the glass, splattering the pane.
"Two snipers!" someone shouted over the comm.
I scanned and picked up muzzle flashes in the windows of the opposite building. They'd set an ambush.
"Take cover!" I yelled, then swung the scope.
Two sniper rounds zipped past my shoulder, searing close. I found my target and hit it; the other shooter slumped.
"Don, you're hit!" the other rooftop sniper cried when he saw the blood on my shoulder.
"Just a graze," I gritted. "Keep picking targets."
