Chapter 61

Chapter 61
Lina's POV

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, beginning to reconstruct the internal layout of the Red Hook safe house in my mind.

This had been finalized by Luca after we'd met with Dmitri that day. We'd discussed whether to move Dmitri outside New York, but intelligence indicated Raven's mobility beyond state lines was stronger than we'd estimated. A long-distance transfer would actually expose more vulnerable windows.

Ultimately, Luca decided to establish the safe house directly in that Red Hook location—sometimes the most dangerous place is the safest.

The warehouse's first floor served as storage, filled with wooden crates that would never be moved, providing cover for entrances and vehicle access. The second floor was the main activity area for stationed personnel—four people distributed between two rooms on either side of the corridor, working in pairs on rotating shifts.

The first room was the communications center, housing encrypted radio equipment, surveillance mainframes, and alarm terminals connected to the electronic ankle monitor on the third floor. The second room was quarters with two simple cots and a microwave.

At least six people were stationed at the safe house daily—four on the second floor, two responsible for guarding Dmitri on the third. Shifts rotated every six hours, with personnel from all three levels cross-confirming identities during changeovers.

The third floor had only one room—Dmitri's cell. He was confined there, his hand tendons personally severed by Luca during interrogation. Now he couldn't even hold a water cup; guards had to spoon-feed him meals.

Beyond that, an electronic ankle monitor connected to the second floor's alarm system—if the device was forcibly removed, signal was interrupted, or Dmitri left the third floor perimeter, the surveillance mainframe would immediately trigger alerts while simultaneously sending Level 3 warnings to Luca's phone and two perimeter sentry terminals.

If the Raven attacked the safe house, six people should hold out at least three minutes. That was the most conservative estimate—even under surprise assault, the four on the second floor could establish crossfire along the corridor, while communications personnel had two independent communication protocols, absolutely capable of sending timely alerts for reinforcements.

But obviously communications were down—both main lines and backup channels simultaneously paralyzed, preventing them from sending any alerts.

The ankle monitor's alarm system operated independently from communications. Theoretically, even with total communication blackout, alerts should reach Luca's phone and perimeter positions through dedicated frequencies. But that signal never came either.

Logic dictated there should be contingency measures for sending alerts without communications. Luca never bet on just one option—he always maintained a third insurance policy, unless someone inside had disabled that third safeguard.

"He has inside help," I opened my eyes.

Luca's lips compressed into a line, his expression growing even icier. He'd obviously reached the same conclusion.

"Someone among those eight people is his, otherwise communications couldn't be cut from inside, and the ankle monitor alarm wouldn't have failed."

"I know." Luca's voice carried suppressed rage pushed to its limits. "I'm trying to figure out who."

The car descended from the overpass, turning into Red Hook's industrial district roads where conditions deteriorated sharply. Potholed asphalt made the chassis emit dull impacts. Street lighting was sparse—only every few dozen meters had a functioning lamp, and those at half normal brightness, their orange halos wrapped in fog into blurry orbs.

Both sides showed low brick walls and rust-stained chain link fencing. Behind the fencing, empty lots held several abandoned trucks stripped of tires, their graffitied cargo containers indistinguishable in color under darkness, only revealing wild, clawed outlines. The air grew heavier with sea salt mixed with industrial waste's acrid bite.

I looked toward the distance. The skyline in the dock's direction should have been completely black, but weak red light flickered there now, brightness fluctuating as it reflected off the low cloud base, staining a patch of sky an ominous dark orange.

Fire.

"It's burning," I said.

Luca stopped the car behind a container stack two hundred meters from the warehouse, pulled the keys, and got out. I followed, cold wind carrying smoke hitting us head-on.

The warehouse's third-floor windows belched thick smoke—dark-colored, roiling out through sheet metal gaps and broken window frames, continuously replenished even as sea winds dispersed it. Orange-red flames leaked through metal seams as heated sheet metal expanded and warped, emitting creaking groans. The fire concentrated on the upper level—clearly arson, meant to destroy evidence.

Luca retrieved a short-barreled shotgun and bulletproof vest from the trunk. He tossed me the vest, which I caught and fitted in three seconds, pulling it tight.

"I'll take the main entrance, you go through the east side ventilation ducts," Luca said quietly, loading shells with smooth, rapid motions. "Meet on the third floor."

"Understood."

I turned and slipped through gaps in the container stacks, crouching as I quickly approached the warehouse's east wall. At the base were rows of corroded vents—grating had been kicked out from inside. The Raven's people must have entered here too.

I squeezed sideways into the ventilation duct. The metal walls were ice-cold, every movement producing slight creaks. I slowed down, using elbows and knees to control my center of gravity, minimizing noise.

Reaching the second floor's air outlet, I caught the smell of blood. That distinctive iron-rust scent of blood crept up through grating gaps, so concentrated I could almost taste sweetness at the root of my tongue.

Peering down through the grating, the corridor had become a slaughter scene. Large amounts of blood flowed along the concrete floor toward lower areas, gradually forming dark red streams in branching, vein-like patterns.

The nearest corpse lay face-down in the corridor's center, arms extended forward, a circular bullet hole in the back of his skull. Small diameter, surrounded by a ring of burned skin—close-range execution-style shooting.

I counted the bodies within my field of vision: one in the corridor center, another face-up at the communications room entrance, one half-hanging in the quarters' doorframe. Three total.

Where were the rest?

I carefully pushed open the grating. The hinges might have been rusted—they produced slight friction sounds when pushed, but that was negligible amid the fire's crackling.

I landed as quietly as possible on the corridor floor, boot soles splashing into the blood pool with subtle viscous sounds. I drew my pistol in a two-handed grip, muzzle parallel with my sight line, advancing slowly along the wall with my back constantly pressed against it, ensuring no blind spots were exposed from any angle.

First room—door open. Two people lay by the table inside, one shot in the chest, another with his throat slashed. Communications equipment on the table was smashed, screens shattered into spider webs. The mainframe casing had been pried open, hard drives removed or destroyed on site, components scattered across the floor, producing tiny crunching sounds underfoot.

The second room was empty except for overturned cots and unfinished instant noodles, but the floor showed drag marks—someone had been dragged toward the staircase direction. The drag trail lacked hand-clawing struggle marks, indicating the dragged person had already lost the ability to resist—either unconscious or already dead.

Five corpses. Five dead out of eight people, three still unaccounted for.