Chapter 5 : The Warehouse
The warehouse squatted at the edge of the Narrows' industrial zone like a forgotten promise.
Three stories of brick and iron, windows mostly intact, loading dock facing an alley that dead-ended at a chain-link fence. Terry led us through a side door that groaned on rusted hinges, and the smell hit immediately: dust, mold, and something chemical that might have been old paint.
"Home sweet home," Julio muttered.
We weren't alone.
Two figures huddled near the loading bay, wrapped in blankets that might have been blue once. Homeless men, from the looks of them—gaunt faces, hollow eyes, the particular stillness of people who'd learned that drawing attention meant trouble.
Big Pat approached them. His voice stayed soft.
"Hey. We're moving in. You've got two options: take twenty bucks and find somewhere else, or stay and work for us."
The older of the two—gray beard, trembling hands—looked at his companion. Some silent communication passed between them.
"We'll take the money," Gray Beard said.
Terry handed over the cash. The two men gathered their meager possessions and shuffled toward the door. The younger one paused at the threshold, looking back.
"Marco's boys come through here sometimes. Checking the building." He glanced at me, then away. "Just so you know."
Then they were gone.
"Great," Julio said. "Perfect."
I ignored him and walked the space.
The main floor was open—concrete and steel beams, shadows pooling in corners where the light from grimy windows didn't reach. The loading bay doors were solid but rusted; they'd make noise opening. Good for warning, bad for quick escape.
Stairs in the back led to a second floor: smaller rooms, probably offices once. One had a desk with a single working drawer. A chair missing one wheel.
I sat in the chair and it tilted dangerously. For a moment, I pretended I was a CEO surveying my kingdom.
"CEO of a warehouse full of rats and broken dreams. Very impressive."
The absurdity caught me off guard, and something that was almost a laugh escaped my throat.
"You okay, boss?" Terry appeared in the doorway.
Boss. He'd called me boss.
"Fine. Just appreciating the accommodations." I stood, testing the chair's limits. "Three entrances?"
"Front, side, and there's a window in the back office that drops into the alley. Fire escape, sort of. It's rusted but holds."
"Exits are life," I said. "First rule of any base: know how to leave it."
Terry nodded, something like respect in his eyes.
We spent the next hour securing the space. Julio found a working sink in a back room—brown water for the first minute, then clear enough. Big Pat discovered a stash of supplies the previous occupants had left behind: canned food, a camp stove, some blankets that didn't smell too badly.
I plugged my dead flip phone into a charger Terry produced from somewhere. The screen flickered. Low battery. Charging.
[RESOURCE DISCOVERY: +3]
[CUNNING: +2 — Tactical planning demonstrated]
[TERRITORY OPPORTUNITY DETECTED: MARCO SANTINI'S OPERATION]
[Current threat: 15 men, estimated]
[Territory value: Low — 2-3 blocks protection racket]
[Weakness: Hot-headed leadership, dispersed forces]
I dismissed the notifications and gathered my people in the main floor.
"Tell me about Marco Santini."
Terry pulled out a cigarette—unlit, just something to hold. "Mid-level guy. Used to run courier work under Falcone. When the old man went down, Marco carved out a piece of the Narrows for himself. Protection rackets, mostly. Some drug running. Maybe fifteen guys who answer to him."
"Fifteen," Julio repeated nervously. "And there's four of us. Five if you count the chair."
"Fifteen spread across three blocks," Terry corrected. "Never more than four or five together unless he calls them in."
"What's he like?" I asked.
"Hot-headed. Quick temper. But loyal to his people." Terry paused. "Especially family. His sister's the only blood he's got left."
"And I saved her from his own collectors. Which makes me either a hero or a threat, depending on how the story gets told."
"How's he going to come at us?"
"Hard and fast. Marco doesn't do subtle. He'll gather his boys, probably eight or ten of them, and kick down whoever's door he thinks wronged him." Terry met my eyes. "That's why we need to move. Find somewhere he won't—"
"No."
The word came out harder than intended. Terry blinked.
"We're not running," I said. "Running means we're prey. Prey gets hunted." I gestured at the warehouse around us. "This is defensible. Three entrances, but we control all of them. We know the layout. They don't."
"You want to fight?" Julio's voice cracked. "Against eight guys? Ten?"
"I want to win. There's a difference."
Big Pat made a sound—low, thoughtful. "You got a plan?"
I smiled. The first real smile since waking up in this body.
"How many of those entrances does Marco know about?"
Terry thought. "The front, probably. Side door's hidden from the street. Back window, nobody knows about unless they've been inside."
"Then we give him the front."
The warehouse was quiet. Dust motes floated in the dying light from the windows.
"We set up in the dark," I continued. "Julio watches the side door—anyone comes through there, we know we're flanked. Big Pat takes position near the loading bay, somewhere with cover. Terry, you're with me in the back. We let them come in, let them spread out searching, and then—"
"We hit them when they're not looking." Terry's smile matched mine. "Guerrilla warfare."
"They have numbers. We have home field advantage." I looked at each of them in turn. "Can you do this?"
Big Pat nodded without hesitation. Terry's smile widened. Julio's lighter stopped clicking.
"Yeah," Julio said finally. "Yeah, okay. I'm in."
The side door slammed open.
We spun. Julio had a pipe in his hands before I'd registered the movement. Big Pat was already stepping forward, placing himself between the door and the rest of us.
It was Julio's friend—a kid, maybe sixteen, who I'd seen him talking to earlier. He was breathing hard, eyes wide.
"They're coming," the kid gasped. "Marco's boys. They're asking about the new guy everywhere. Someone talked. They know you're in the Narrows."
"How long?" Terry asked.
"Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Marco's gathering his crew."
The kid fled. The door swung shut behind him.
We stood in the silence of the warehouse, the weight of the coming violence settling over us like a shroud.
"Guess we've got some work to do," I said.
No one laughed.
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