Chapter 4: Operation Trojan Fiat

Chapter 4: Operation Trojan Fiat

The air in the loading dock crackled with a tension thicker than the diesel fumes. The countdown had begun. Somewhere out on the city streets, a 35-ton truck carrying a little girl’s last hope was barreling towards them, and its path was blocked by a monument to arrogance.

From the maintenance bay, a deep, guttural rumble echoed, a sound that vibrated through the concrete floor. It was the sound of a beast waking. A moment later, Old Bessie lumbered into view, Gus perched in the driver’s seat like a mahout on a war elephant. The ten-ton forklift was a monster of faded yellow steel and hydraulic muscle, its two massive forks held low like the tusks of a charging boar. Compared to the forklift, the crimson Lancia looked like a child's toy.

Leo stood at the head of the bay, a field marshal surveying his battlefield. Marco was on his right, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his youthful energy barely contained. Sal was on his left, his usual weariness replaced by a grim, focused resolve. They were no longer just warehouse workers; they were a commando unit on a mission.

"Radio check," Leo said into his walkie-talkie, his voice crisp and low.

"Marco, ready," the reply crackled back.

"Sal, ready."

"Gus is ready to dance," came the cheerful, gravelly voice from the forklift's cockpit.

"Alright," Leo said, his eyes scanning the area. A few orderlies and a kitchen worker were watching from a distance, their curiosity piqued by the sight of the massive forklift. Good. Witnesses. "Gus, make your approach. Slow and steady. Marco, Sal, you are his eyes. One on each side. Watch the clearance on the support pillars. Call out every foot."

The operation began. The low rumble of Old Bessie’s engine deepened as Gus engaged the gears. The forklift crawled forward with surprising grace for a machine of its size. Marco and Sal walked alongside, their hands up, using the same signals Leo had taught them for guiding semi-trailers into the bay. It was a language of precise, economical movements, a ballet of logistics.

"Five feet to the pillar on your left, Gus," Sal called out, his voice steady.

"You're clear on the right by a yard," Marco added.

Leo watched, his heart pounding a steady, military rhythm against his ribs. Every detail of Isabella's condescending smirk, every silken, dismissive word—"a piece of furniture that is learning to talk"—flashed in his mind. This wasn't just for the little girl in the PICU anymore. This was for Sal, who had been treated like he was invisible for twenty years. It was for Marco, who was told his hard work would never get him anywhere. It was for every member of the hospital's underclass who was expected to simply work around the casual cruelty of the powerful.

Old Bessie came to a halt a few feet from the Lancia. The engine idled, a powerful, rhythmic hum that seemed to mock the car’s silent petulance.

"Okay, Gus," Leo said into the radio. "Forks down. Get your alignment."

With a hydraulic hiss, the massive steel tines lowered until they hovered inches above the concrete. Gus, a portrait of concentration, nudged the controls. The entire forklift shifted an inch to the left, then another. From Leo's vantage point, he could see Gus lining up the forks perfectly with the car's frame, aiming for the reinforced points that would bear the weight without crushing the chassis. This was the most dangerous part. A slip, a miscalculation, and they would be guilty of exactly what Gus had warned against: vandalism.

"Ready for the lift," Gus announced, his voice tight.

"Spotters, check your position," Leo commanded. Marco and Sal knelt down, peering under the car.

"Forks are clear of the oil pan and the exhaust," Sal confirmed.

"Looks good on the drivetrain," Marco added.

"Alright, Gus," Leo took a deep breath. "Take her up. Slow and gentle."

The hydraulic hiss intensified. The massive forks trembled and then began to rise, inch by agonizing inch. They made contact with the Lancia’s undercarriage with a soft, metallic groan. The car's suspension compressed, and for a terrifying second, Leo thought the tires might blow. But then, with the inexorable power of a rising tide, Old Bessie lifted the car from the ground.

One inch. Six inches. A foot. The crimson Lancia was airborne, held aloft in a perfect, horizontal cradle, looking utterly ridiculous and powerless. Marco let out a whoop of triumph, quickly stifling it at a sharp look from Leo.

The car was free. The bay was clear. They could simply set it down in the far corner of the parking lot and be done with it. The problem would be solved. The truck could unload. The little girl would get her machine. It was the safe, logical, and defensible thing to do.

But as Leo looked at the car, suspended in the air like a vanquished dragon, a cold, rebellious fire burned away all thoughts of safety. Isabella di Stefano hadn't just broken a rule. She had spat on it. She had used her power to endanger lives and humiliate his men. Simply moving the car wasn't enough. Justice required more than a solution; it required a statement. A loud, public, undeniable statement.

"Phase two," Leo said into the radio, his voice hard as iron. "Proceed to the target location. We're going out the main bay door."

Gus didn't question him. A wide, delighted grin split his face. He expertly reversed Old Bessie, turning the forklift and its crimson trophy towards the street. Marco and Sal jogged ahead, acting as an escort, waving off a bewildered-looking laundry truck.

The procession was slow, majestic, and utterly surreal. A ten-ton forklift carrying a tiny, expensive Italian car through the hospital's service roads. Nurses on their smoke breaks stopped mid-puff, their jaws agape. A security guard in his patrol car slowed to a crawl, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe, before seeming to decide that this was far above his pay grade and speeding up again.

They rounded the final corner and the main entrance of St. Jude's came into view. It was a grand affair of glass and polished stone, with a circular driveway looping around a large, ornate fountain where water danced in the afternoon sun. It was the face the hospital presented to its wealthy donors and trustees.

"Dead center, Gus," Leo instructed. "Right in front of the fountain."

Gus navigated Old Bessie onto the pristine brickwork of the roundabout with the care of a surgeon. Tourists and visitors scattered, pulling out cameras, their faces a canvas of disbelief. He brought the forklift to a stop at the geometric center of the circle, the Lancia now positioned as if it were a modern art installation.

"Alright," Leo said. "Bring her down. Set her down like she's made of glass."

The hydraulics hissed again, and the Lancia was lowered gently back to earth. Its tires settled onto the bricks with a soft sigh. Gus retracted the forks with surgical precision, not leaving so much as a scratch on the crimson paint.

There it sat. Perfectly parked in a place no car could ever park. It blocked the drop-off lane. It blocked the valet stand. No tow truck could reach it without a heavy-duty crane, and no crane could get into the roundabout without causing a logistical nightmare. It was a beautiful, elegant, and insoluble problem.

"Mission accomplished," Gus said over the radio, his voice filled with glee.

As if on cue, a new sound joined the murmuring of the growing crowd: the deep-throated rumble and air-brake hiss of a massive truck. The 35-ton Med-Tech rig was turning into the hospital's service entrance.

"Let's go," Leo said, a grim smile of satisfaction on his face. "We've got a delivery to receive."

His team fell in behind him, walking away from the chaos at the main entrance and back towards their kingdom. They walked with their heads held high, the quiet, invisible men who had, for one brief, glorious moment, lifted a queen from her throne and put her exactly where she belonged. The bay was clear. The battle was won.