The Iron Waitress

Using the dead mercenary's satellite radio, Sophia tracked the encrypted frequency straight to an abandoned industrial warehouse down by the East River docks.

Nicolo sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked delivery van they had commandeered from the alley behind Cafe Luna, his hands steadying a heavy-caliber piece Sophia had tossed him from her kit.

“You’re awfully comfortable with a gun for a former waitress,” Nicolo said, watching her shift gears smoothly as they rounded the corner toward the docks.

“I wasn't a waitress, Mr. Bandi,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the wet asphalt ahead. “I was a federal major crimes investigator assigned to dismantle the Moretti syndicate from the inside out. Until I found out my own agency had been compromised from the top down.”

“So you faked your death?”

“No,” she said, glancing at him with a sharp, piercing look. “I just changed my uniform. And waited for the right umbrella to walk into my cafe.”

The warehouse loomed ahead, grey and desolate against the overcast sky.

Parked outside the loading bay was Marco’s black Mercedes.