Chapter 9 - THE NEWARK GHOSTS|
By 8:00 p.m., night had fallen over Newark. Rain began to patter against the bulletproof glass of the SUV, blurring the streetlights into distorted smears of yellow and red.
Our driver pulled into a dark alleyway two blocks away from my childhood home. The neighborhood was decaying—boarded-up windows, overgrown lawns, and rusted cars parked along the curb.
"Stay here, Tomaso," Enzo instructed, pulling a black rain jacket over his suit. "Amelia and I go in alone. Less noise."
"Boss, I don't like it," Tomaso grumbled. "If Gianni’s spotters are in the area—"
"If they see a four-man tactical team walk up the driveway, they'll call in air support," Enzo interrupted, racking the slide of his pistol. "If they see two shadows in the dark, they won't notice a thing."
He opened the door and offered me his hand.
I took it. His grip was large, warm, and steady against the chilling rain.
We cut through the overgrown back alleys, stepping quietly over broken glass and wet trash until we reached the rear fence of my old home. The wooden house stood dark and abandoned, its yellow paint peeling away like dead skin, surrounded by a high chain-link fence.
"Is the basement window still open?" Enzo whispered, his breath hot against my ear as we crouched beneath a weeping willow tree.
"It's rusted shut," I whispered back. "We have to use the cellar storm door in the back."
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We crept across the muddy yard. Enzo moved like a ghost—silent, lethal, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike.
He reached the heavy iron storm door, pulled out a small lock-picking set from his pocket, and worked the rusted padlock. Within ten seconds, the iron mechanism clicked open with a faint hiss.
