Chapter 7
The rain had lessened to a misty, suffocating drizzle by five in the morning.
Along the industrialized shoreline of Brooklyn, Pier 42 loomed like a rusted leviathan emerging from the morning fog.
Towers of multi-colored shipping containers were stacked four high, forming labyrinthine canyons of corrugated steel.
The harbor water below slapped against the creosote pilings with a rhythmic, sickening thud.
A single black SUV drove past the abandoned security gate, its headlights cutting through the swirling gray mist.
Adrian sat behind the wheel, dressed in a heavy tactical coat over a Kevlar vest.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Emily sat quietly, clutching the titanium drive in her lap.
Nathan and twenty of Adrian’s top operatives were not with them.
At least, not visibly.
Adrian had refused to walk blindly into Russo’s trap, but he also couldn't risk a full frontal assault that would trigger the corrupt port authority agents stationed two blocks away.
Nathan’s team had infiltrated the pier from the water thirty minutes earlier, using combat diver gear to scale the pilings beneath the southern crane platform.
They were waiting in the shadows, waiting for Adrian’s signal.
“Are you sure about this?” Emily asked, her voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.
Adrian brought the SUV to a stop in the center of an open asphalt turnaround between two towering rows of blue containers.
Fifty yards ahead, four black Cadillacs were parked in a half-circle, their high beams blazing directly into the SUV’s windshield.
“No,” Adrian answered honestly, shifting the car into park.
“I’m never sure about men like Dominic Russo.”
“He is greedy, reckless, and desperate.”
“That makes him dangerous.”
He turned his body toward her, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Keep your hand in your coat pocket,” he instructed gently.
“The compact pistol I gave you has no safety.”
“Point and pull the trigger.”
“Only if someone touches you.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice firmer than he had ever heard it.
“And remember,” Adrian added, his dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that took her breath away.
“Whatever happens out there, you are not a bargaining chip.”
“You are not currency.”
“You are coming home with me.”
Emily nodded, swallowing the terrifying lump in her throat.
They stepped out of the vehicle simultaneously, the damp sea air immediately clinging to their skin.
Across the tarmac, the doors of the Cadillacs swung open.
A dozen men in heavy leather coats and tactical gear stepped out, holding shotguns and assault rifles at low ready.
From the center vehicle emerged Dominic Russo.
He was fifty-five years old, slicked-back silver hair, dressed in a three-thousand-dollar tailored camel-hair coat that looked ridiculous against the grimy backdrop of the industrial pier.
He carried a silver-tipped cane, though he walked without the slightest hint of a limp.
“Adrian!” Russo called out, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend to a banquet.
“You actually showed up!”
“And you brought the lovely ghost with you!”
Adrian didn't smile.
He walked forward ten paces, stopping with Emily positioned half a step behind his right shoulder.
“Cut the theater, Dominic,” Adrian said, his voice carrying clearly over the groan of the harbor cranes.
“You have your meeting.”
“Now tell your port authority pets to stand down from my terminal gates.”
Russo laughed, a wet, rattling sound that made Emily’s skin crawl.
“Business first, my boy!” Russo said, pointing his cane toward Emily.
“Show me the drive.”
Emily reached into her coat, pulled out the titanium casing, and held it up so the bright headlights caught the polished metal.
Russo’s eyes widened with naked, undisguised greed.
For forty years, the Vance master ledger had been a myth whispered in backroom card games and smoky penthouses.
It was the holy grail of eastern organized crime.
With that single piece of hardware, Dominic Russo wouldn't just rule the docks; he would rule the men who wrote the laws of the country.
“Magnificent,” Russo breathed, taking three eager steps forward.
“Bring it here, Genevieve.”
“Bring it to Uncle Dominic, and I promise you’ll walk away from this pier alive.”
“She’s not taking another step toward you,” Adrian intercepted coldly.
“You want the drive?”
“Call off the port authority raid right now on speakerphone, or I drop this drive into thirty feet of harbor sludge.”
Russo stopped walking, the genial mask slipping from his face to reveal the snarling predator beneath.
“You’re in no position to dictate terms, Cross,” Russo growled.
“Look around you.”
“I have twelve men with automatic weapons trained on your chest.”
“You’re outgunned, outmaneuvered, and out of time.”
“You think so?” Adrian asked softly.
Adrian raised his left hand and formed a slow, deliberate fist.
High above the pier, perched on the rusted catwalk of the industrial gantry crane, a green laser beam snapped into existence.
It pinned itself directly onto the center of Dominic Russo’s forehead.
A second laser painted his chest.
A third painted the throat of his lead bodyguard.
Russo froze, his face draining of all color.
“Nathan took your outer perimeter ten minutes ago, Dominic,” Adrian said, his voice entirely devoid of pity.
“You brought twelve men to a pier that has forty of mine buried in the containers.”
Russo’s eyes darted toward the shadows, panic finally cracking through his arrogant facade.
“You wouldn't dare,” Russo hissed.
“If I don't check in with the port director in ten minutes, the federal indictment unseals!”
“You’ll be an outlaw by sunrise!”
“I’d rather rule an empire from a prison cell than bow to a backstabbing rat like you,” Adrian said.
“Drop your weapons, Dominic.”
“Now.”
For three agonizing seconds, nobody moved.
The tension on the pier was thick enough to choke on.
Then, from the shadows behind the Cadillacs, a single gunshot roared through the mist.
May you like
It wasn't aimed at Adrian.
It was aimed at Emily.
