The bait is simple, but expensive. Docked at the pier sits the cargo ship from Afghanistan, fifty kilos of uncut heroin in its hold.
The Ghost has a pattern: they hit big shipments, high-value targets, operations where risk and reward run equally high. This should be irresistible.
Dem’s voice crackles through my earpiece from the surveillance van three miles out. “All positions, status check.”
“North side clear,” I murmur into my mic. “No movement.”
“Copy. Drones are circling, thermals show nothing unusual. Tech team confirms all systems operational.”
“Ready,” Matvey confirms.
One by one, our people respond. Three squad leaders commanding our men spread across the area. They’re inside containers, behind equipment, underneath the dock itself, tucked within the warehouses flanking the approach. They’re armed with automatic weapons and night vision. All of them waiting.
Elio’s voice cuts through. “South side locked down. We’re ready.”
Everything is in place. Every angle covered. Every contingency planned for.
And still, my gut says something’s wrong.
We coordinated everything through encrypted messaging, nothing verbal. If the Ghost has been listening through bugs, they should have no idea what’s waiting.
“Unloading starts in five minutes,” Dem says. “Stay quiet. When they show, we let them commit before we move. The Ghost operates with soldiers, probably ex-military based on their precision. We need at least one alive for interrogation. No one fires until I give the order.”
I scan the approaches through my scope, taking in the city skyline glittering in the distance, oblivious to what’s unfolding in the industrial wasteland of Red Hook.
My finger rests alongside the trigger guard.
It all comes down to the next hour. If we stop the Ghost tonight, get intel, I can end this and get my father off my back. Get my Bratva back.
I hate Elio a little less after the Marco situation. He’s still an asshole, and I still don’t want him as a brother-in-law, which tonight will ensure.
“Heroin’s moving,” Dem confirms. “First pallets coming up.”
Through the scope, the crew emerges with the first load, wheeling it down the gangway toward waiting trucks.
The unloading continues, nothing out of the ordinary, until Matvey reports in. “Multiple contacts, water approach from the east.”
My crosshairs swing toward the Hudson. Dark shapes cutting through the water. It takes a second to register they’re speedboats, running without lights, closing fast on the pier.
“Visual confirmed,” I say. “Four speedboats, no lights, approaching from?—“
And like that, the comms cut out.
There’s no static or interference on the line. Just nothing. Like someone reached into my ear and ripped the connection out.
I press my transmit button. “Dem? Command, do you copy?”
Silence.
“Matvey? Anyone?”
Fuck.
“Hello, gentlemen.” A digitally distorted voice cuts through the dead air. It’s robotic, stripped of any identifying features. Every muscle locks up. “We know you can hear us,” the voicecontinues, speaking through our own encrypted comms system. “Very impressive setup. You really went all out for us.”
I sweep the pier through the lens, searching for targets, for movement, for anything. The speedboats have reached the dock, figures in black pouring out, but my attention snaps to the cargo ship. The men I took for dock workers raise weapons and open fire on our positions.
Fuck. The Ghost got their people on our cargo ship before it ever docked. The speedboats aren't an attack force. They're the getaway.
