Chapter 5 - Tenth Avenue Ruins
The rain intensified into a torrential downpour as the three-car convoy crossed the rusted iron bridge into the Lower West Side. Tenth Avenue was a forgotten district of rotting brownstones, boarded-up storefronts, and flickering amber streetlights. This was the territory of the Carroways, an Irish-American syndicate that made its fortune on loan sharking and illegal dock smuggling.
The Maybach rolled to a stop outside a dilapidated four-story tenement building. Water cascaded off the rusted fire escapes, pooling around piles of uncollected garbage bags.
"Building 412," Marco announced from the front passenger seat, watching the perimeter through tinted windows. "Second floor, rear. Bos, look at the front entrance."
The wooden frame of the main entrance door was splintered outward. A broken cheap brass deadbolt lay on the wet concrete stoop.
Gabriel’s pulse drummed in his ears. He turned to the driver. "Stay with the girl. Lock the doors. If anyone approaches within ten yards without a badge or my face, put a bullet through the glass."
"Understood, Mr. Vance," the driver replied, his hand resting on a submachine gun beneath the console.
Gabriel stepped out into the biting cold rain, flanked by Marco and four armed operatives. Their trench coats billowed in the wind as they ascended the cracked stone steps. The hallway inside smelled of mildew, boiled cabbage, and cheap stale beer. A bare lightbulb flickered yellow overhead, casting erratic shadows across peeling wallpaper.
Gabriel climbed the stairs two at a time, his polished dress shoes making almost no sound on the grease-stained stairs. When he reached the second-floor landing, the door to Apartment 2B hung halfway off its hinges.
Inside, the tiny apartment was torn apart.
A rickety dining table lay on its side, its single bowl shattered on the linoleum. Clothes from an open cardboard box were strewn everywhere. In the corner sat a threadbare mattress on the floor, soaked with tipped-over water.
On the floor beside the mattress lay Elena Miller.
She was curled into a ball, wearing a threadbare grey sweater and threadbare sweatpants. Her face was pale as marble, her lips tinted blue with dehydration, and a vicious cut swelled along her cheekbone. Standing over her with a heavy iron crowbar was Silas, a broad-shouldered brute with greasy blond hair, grinning down at her with a flashing gold front tooth.
Behind Silas stood three armed thugs in leather jackets, their hands shoved deep into their pockets.
"Look who decided to join the eviction," Silas sneered, turning toward the open doorway without even lifting his weapon. "You're trespassing, Vance. Old man Carroway gave us the contract to clear this block for Sterling."
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Gabriel didn't reach for his gun. He simply closed the broken door behind him and locked the remains of the chain.
"Marco," Gabriel whispered, unbuttoning his tailored suit jacket. "Take the three behind him. Break their knees. Leave the one with the gold tooth to me."
