The northern rail junction sat in the shadow of a sprawling industrial corridor, silent and grey under the pre-dawn fog.
It was ten minutes past five in the morning.
The customs house was a squat concrete building with tinted glass, tucked between two high freight yards. It didn't carry the Ferrante crest or any visible mark of syndicate ownership. To the rest of the city, it was just a standard office for commercial cargo arriving by rail.
To Bruno Ferrante, it was the central artery of his cash flow.
The convoy doused its headlights two hundred yards down the access road, rolling to a silent stop beside a row of rusted shipping containers.
Petyr's men moved like military. Four Bratva soldiers disappeared into the fog along the perimeter fence, setting portable signal scramblers into the frozen mud to block all outgoing radio and cellular frequencies within a three-mile radius.
