Chapter 18 - The Gathering of Wolves
The rain over the harbor fell like needles. Warehouse 14 was a cavernous structure of rusted corrugated steel, sitting at the end of Pier 9, surrounded by stacks of shipping containers that created a maze of lethal blind corners.
Floodlights bathed the perimeter in harsh white glare. Two sentries paced the catwalk above the water, their rifles slung across their chests, smoking cigarettes to stay warm in the bitter drizzle.
A muffled *thud* cut through the hum of the harbor generators.
The first sentry glanced over the railing just in time to see his partner plummet into the black water below, a single red dot burning on his chest before he hit the waves. Before the man could shout, a silenced round caught him between the shoulder blades. He folded forward over the iron rail, dangling motionless.
Dominic emerged from the shadows beneath the crane.
He moved through the maze of shipping containers like a ghost through catacombs. Dante and his four men took up positions flanking the southern loading bays, cutting the exterior power cables.
*Snap.*
The blinding floodlights died simultaneously, plunging Pier 9 into pitch-black chaos.
Shouts erupted inside the warehouse in three different languages. Emergency red auxiliary lights flickered to life, casting long, bloody shadows across the vast concrete floor.
Dominic kicked the side pedestrian door off its hinges with a thunderous crash.
He entered low and fast. A mercenary rounding a forklift raised his weapon, but Dominic fired three rounds center-mass before the man could acquire his target. Dominic stepped over the falling body, pivoting smoothly to eliminate a second shooter taking cover behind a wooden crate.
Gunfire erupted from all sides—the deafening roar of unsuppressed automatic weapons ripping through the warehouse, chewing through drywall, shattering glass offices, and sparking off steel girders.
Dante’s team breached from the eastern loading dock, laying down a heavy base of fire that pinned the center of the room. The air grew thick with acrid cordite smoke and the screams of dying men.
Dominic didn't take cover. He advanced steadily down the center aisle, a phantom cloaked in black, firing with mechanical, terrifying precision. Every shot was lethal; every movement was economic. The years of quiet exile in Baker's Cove had not dulled his instincts—they had sharpened them into an instrument of pure survival.
A heavy machine gun opened up from the mezzanine office above, chewing a line of concrete toward Dominic’s feet. Dominic dove behind a steel shipping container as high-caliber rounds tore through the sheet metal inches from his head.
"Russo!" a voice screamed from the mezzanine over the din of battle.
Dominic looked up through the shattered glass of the elevated office.
Standing behind two heavily armored bodyguards was Lucian Moretti. He was younger than Marco, his hair slicked back, wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat ruined by sweat and terror. In his hands, he held a detonator switch with a blinking red LED.
"Look at you!" Lucian shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. "The great Dominic Russo, groveling in the dirt! You killed my brother! You thought you could walk away and play daddy in some fisherman's shack?!"
Dominic did not answer. He checked his magazine: four rounds left. He reached to his belt, unhooking the last flashbang grenade.
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"You're too late, Dominic!" Lucian laughed, a wild, manic sound that bounced off the steel roof. "You think this was about taking your throne? This was never about the syndicate! This was about burning down everything you ever touched!"
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