Chapter 8
The Calumet harbor smelled of rusted iron, rotting algae, and freezing rain.
Warehouse 14 was a colossal cavern of corrugated steel, its towering bay doors hanging half-open to the churning black waters of Lake Michigan. Giant shipping containers were stacked three high along the perimeter, casting massive, jagged shadows under the flickering sodium-vapor lights suspended from the rafters.
Our convoy of three black, reinforced Suburbans had entered through the secondary rail siding ten minutes ago, completely unannounced.
I was sitting in the back of the lead vehicle.
Daniel was in the front passenger seat, an automatic assault rifle resting across his knees, his eyes scanning the catwalks eighty feet above our heads.
Through the reinforced, tinted glass of the window, I could see them.
Twenty armed men in heavy rain slickers, surrounding four black delivery trucks idling near the water’s edge. They were heavily armed—submachine guns, shotguns, tactical vests. Standing at the front of the pack was a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored trench coat, leaning on an ebony walking stick with a silver falcon head.
Vittorio Ross.
Even through the rain-streaked window, I recognized the cruel, aristocratic features from the old photographs my mother used to keep locked in her jewelry box.
"They took the bait, Daniel," I whispered, my hand gripping the cold frame of the SIG Sauer concealed inside the pocket of my oversized coat.
"Boss is in position," Daniel replied into his throat mic. "Alpha team ready. Bravo team on the cranes."
The driver killed the Suburban’s headlights.
In the sudden darkness, the side door of our vehicle slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Dominic stepped out into the pouring rain.
He didn't run. He didn't take cover. He walked into the center of the illuminated concrete floor, completely alone, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He stopped twenty paces from Vittorio Ross.
"You're late, Vittorio," Dominic called out, his voice echoing through the massive warehouse like thunder. "The shipment arrived an hour ago."
Vittorio smiled, a cold, predatory baring of teeth. He tapped his cane against the concrete.
"Dominic," Vittorio said smoothly. "Always so punctual. But you see, I didn't come for the heroin. I knew that manifest was fictitious the moment your dirty house manager tried to sell it to me."
Dominic’s expression didn't change. "Then why are you here?"
"I came for what belongs to the Falcone family," Vittorio said, his eyes shifting toward the dark silhouette of our Suburban. "You’ve had her cleaning your toilets for nearly a year, Valenti. The granddaughter of the greatest king this city ever knew. How poetic."
Vittorio raised his left hand.
From the shadows above the shipping containers, red laser dots suddenly appeared, painting the wet concrete around Dominic’s boots. Ten sniper beams. Twelve. Fifteen.
All centered on Dominic’s chest.
"Step aside, Dominic," Vittorio commanded. "Hand over the girl, and I will allow you to retire to your estate in Florida. Refuse... and you die on this concrete just like your father did."
Inside the Suburban, my breath caught in my throat.
*Just like your father did.*
Dominic didn't look at the laser dots covering his chest. He didn't look at the twenty men raising their weapons.
He looked at Vittorio Ross and smiled.
"You always were an arrogant old bastard, Vittorio," Dominic said softly.
He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
The world exploded.
The sodium-vapor lights overhead shattered simultaneously as suppressed sniper fire rained down from the ceiling rafters. The red laser dots on Dominic’s chest vanished as the snipers on the catwalks plummeted eighty feet to the concrete floor below, dead before they hit the ground.
*“Now!”* Daniel roared, kicking the Suburban door wide open and unleashing a hail of automatic gunfire into the ranks of Vittorio’s men.
Gunfire tore through the warehouse, deafening, blinding, a symphony of chaos and muzzle flashes. Men screamed, steel ricocheted off shipping containers, and the air filled with the suffocating stench of cordite and burning gunpowder.
Dominic drew two weapons in a blur of motion, advancing through the rain of bullets like a wraith, cutting down three men before they could even shoulder their rifles.
I scrambled across the leather seats, peering through the open door.
Vittorio was retreating toward a black speedboat tied to the dock at the edge of the warehouse, his personal bodyguards forming a frantic firing line to cover his escape.
"Daniel! He’s getting to the water!" I screamed over the roar of the guns.
Daniel tried to move, but a burst of automatic fire struck the Suburban’s door frame, showering him in sparks and forcing him back behind the armored panel. "Stay down, Emma! Stay down!"
I looked through the smoke.
Dominic was engaged with two massive mercenaries behind a forklift, trading shots in close quarters. He couldn't see Vittorio reaching the dock edge.
And then I saw it.
One of Vittorio’s dying soldiers was crawling along the concrete behind Dominic, dragging a sawed-off shotgun toward Dominic’s exposed back.
Dominic didn't see him.
The man was leveling the barrels straight at the back of Dominic’s spine.
I didn't think.
I didn't feel the pain in my ankle. I didn't remember that I was just a maid, or a broken dancer, or a scared girl in an oversized coat.
I vaulted out of the Suburban, landing on my good foot, and drew the SIG Sauer from my pocket.
I raised both hands.
Lined up the sights with the back of the crawler’s head.
May you like
And squeezed the trigger.
***
