FORTY-SIX
DINARA
Few thingsin life are better than watching a powerful adversary fall into a trap I built for them.
Like right now.
I move closer to the screen, a smile spreading across my face, watching the Ghost’s surveillance signal ping our fake radio channel.
My honeypot is working. They’re listening and waiting for the moment to make their move.
We got the ball rolling last night, knowing we needed to catch their attention in advance.
I had Kirill send his brothers panicked messages over an encrypted app we know the Ghost monitors.
The message was simple: the DEA got tipped off that the Baronovs’ Red Hook warehouse is holding fifty million in heroin, and they’re planning to raid within forty-eight hours. The Baronovs have to move everything out immediately or lose it all.
Once I confirmed the Ghost had intercepted those messages, we staged a meeting between Kirill and Elio at Rocco’s, a socialclub in Williamsburg, where they very publicly negotiated a deal. Elio offered up a Valenti warehouse near Newtown Creek for temporary storage at triple the going rate. Kirill haggled on the price but eventually they came to an agreement and shook hands.
Last night started it all. Tonight, we’re reeling them in with a live mission.
Right now, three trucks are being loaded with bricks of heroin for transport across the city in a heavily guarded convoy.
I roll my shoulders, working out the tension from sitting hunched over the keyboard for the past six hours.
The door opens behind me, and Gigi walks in, holding a cup of fresh coffee, which she hands to me.
“You are a godsend,” I tell her, taking a long sip.
We’ve worked closely on this operation and I’ve come to respect her. She’s sharp, doesn’t waste time on ego, and holds her own in a room full of men who think they know better.
“Figured this is our chance to fuel up before the trucks roll out.” She takes a sip from her own cup. “The Ghost still listening?”
I gesture at the screen where the data stream is scrolling. “Bet they think they’re so clever, breaking my encryption.”
I built a radio comms system that looks secure from the outside, but I left one small vulnerability in the encryption. They found it within hours.
Now they’re listening to everything and they have no idea I’m feeding them exactly what I want them to hear.
“How’s it going downstairs?” Gigi’s team is in the basement coordinating all ground movements and operations.
She blows out a breath. “So far, so good. The convoy’s on schedule, and the soldiers are locked in position. Let’s just hope those fuckers don’t attack while we’re en route.”
“It’s too risky, even for them. They’ll wait until our people are unloading the trucks at the Valenti warehouse before they strike.” Or at least, that’s what we’re hoping they do. Newtown Creek is an industrial wasteland, which makes it the perfect place for an ambush.
It’s why two hundred soldiers from five families are positioned discreetly around the warehouse, waiting for my word to attack.
She pushes off the doorframe. “It’s showtime soon. I better get into position.” She pauses. “By the way, thanks for all this.” She gestures vaguely at the monitors. “Don’t think we could’ve pulled this off without you. And hey, if things don’t work out with Kirill, the Triad’s door is always open.”
I wink at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My fingers move across the keyboard, queuing up the next fake transmission. This one is a pre-recorded message. It’s Matvey’s voice confirming the route the convoy will take through Brooklyn and into Queens. He mentions Metropolitan Avenue, the turn east at Greenpoint, then toward Newtown Creek. He lists cross streets, estimated time of arrival at the warehouse, and confirms that Valenti personnel will be waiting to help unload the product.
The data stream shows the Ghost’s system intercepting the message within seconds—a spike in their monitoring activity that confirms they’re listening.
Gotcha, suckers.
“Kirill, do you copy?” I switch to our real radio channel, the one I encrypted with an airtight algorithm that no one can break, including the Ghost.
