Chapter 6 - The Lion’s Mouth
The rain had tapered into a thick, freezing mist that clung to the industrial wasteland of the Arthur Kill.
The maritime depot was a graveyard of rusted cargo containers stacked three high, looming like iron monoliths against the smoggy orange glow of the New Jersey refineries across the water. A single sodium floodlight buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glare over the puddle-strewn concrete apron.
A lone black town car rolled to a halt in the center of the staging area.
The driver’s door opened, and Mave stepped out into the freezing wind.
She felt completely naked. The sub-dermal patch behind her ear throbbed with a faint, comforting warmth—a microscopic link to Vincent crawling through the freezing mud beneath her feet—but her stomach was a churning pit of pure adrenaline.
“Hands where I can see them!” a voice barked from the darkness.
Two men in wet tactical gear materialized from the shadows between two shipping containers, their assault rifles leveled squarely at her chest. One of them stepped forward, running a harsh, mechanical scanner over her body. The device chirped green; the sub-dermal transmitter was military-grade, completely invisible to civilian sweeps.
“She’s clean,” the guard grunted into his radio. “Bring her in.”
They shoved her forward, guiding her through the cavernous corrugated-iron doors of the primary warehouse.
The interior reeked of stagnant water, diesel fuel, and dried blood. In the center of the vast concrete floor, tied securely to a rusted steel support pillar, was Julian Costa.
His head was slumped forward, a deep gash weeping blood down his left temple, his lightweight wheelchair overturned ten feet away on the cracked floor. But his chest was rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. He was alive.
Standing behind him, resting a gloved hand casually on Julian’s bruised shoulder, was Nikolai Volkov.
“Look at that,” Volkov sneered, clapping his hands together with theatrical delight. “The loyal little secretary actually showed up. And without her master on his leash.”
Mave stopped fifteen paces away, forcing her spine straight, channeling every ounce of executive coldness she had cultivated behind Vincent’s mahogany desk.
“I’m here, Volkov,” she said, her voice echoing clearly off the high metal rafters. “Release Julian. That was the agreement.”
Volkov let out his dry, rattling laugh. “Agreements are made between equals, little girl. You are a clerk. And Julian is a broken cripple whose brother took thirty million dollars from my family.”
He stepped around Julian’s slumped form, walking slowly toward her, his scarred face gleaming under the hanging industrial lights.
“Where are the release codes, Mave?” he demanded, stopping five feet away. The stench of cheap tobacco and stale sweat rolled off him in waves. “The digital authorizations for the Newark maritime terminal. Hand over the drive, and perhaps I let you watch him die quickly.”
Mave didn't flinch. She kept her eyes locked on his pale, dead irises, deliberately stalling, waiting for the signal that Vincent’s team was in position.
“You’re an idiot, Nikolai,” she said smoothly, letting a cold, mocking smirk touch her lips. “You think Vincent Costa leaves master encryption keys on portable thumb drives? Everything is routed through dual-factor biometric authorization. If you kill Julian, the accounts freeze permanently. You won't see a single cent of that thirty million.”
Volkov’s scarred eyebrow twitched. A flash of genuine rage cracked through his smug facade. He closed the remaining distance in a heartbeat, his heavy hand shooting out to wrap around her throat with brutal force.
He lifted her off her feet, slamming her back against the rusted side of a steel container.
Bang!
Pain exploded across Mave’s shoulders as the air was crushed from her lungs. She gasped, her hands instinctively grabbing his thick, gloved wrists.
“You think you can play games with me?!” Volkov hissed, spit flying from his lips as his grip tightened, cutting off her oxygen. “I will skin you alive in front of this boy, piece by piece, until you recite every password in that pretty little head!”
Spots danced across Mave’s vision. Her lungs burned.
Then, through the sub-dermal patch behind her ear, a voice whispered directly into the bones of her skull.
“Three.”
Vincent.
“Two.”
Mave stopped fighting Volkov’s grip. She looked directly into his pale eyes and smiled.
“One. Drop.”
The world went pitch black.
The high-voltage electrical box on the south wall detonated in a blinding shower of blue sparks. Every floodlight in the warehouse died simultaneously, plunging the vast space into absolute, suffocating darkness.
A split second later, the sharp crack of a suppressed rifle shattered the silence.
May you like
Volkov screamed as a high-caliber round punched through his right shoulder blade. His grip on Mave’s throat failed, and she dropped heavily to the damp concrete floor, rolling beneath the lip of the shipping container exactly as Vincent had commanded.
All hell broke loose.
