Chapter 2 - Blood on the Docks
The bulletproof Lincoln Navigator tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago like a missile. Outside, the skyline of the city blurred into streaks of gray and neon, mirrored in the wet asphalt. Inside, the cabin was a war room.
Gabriel sat in the back seat, his laptop glowing in the dim light, casting harsh shadows across his sharp cheekbones. His fingers moved with mechanical precision over the keys, routing funds, calling in favors, and mobilizing a private army of enforcers.
Clara sat beside him, silent, her hands tightly folded in her lap. The duffel bag she had packed for London was sitting in the trunk, a pathetic monument to an escape that had lasted less than twelve hours.
“Who was that?” Clara asked, breaking the long silence as the car took a sharp turn toward the industrial district.
“Vance,” Gabriel answered without looking up from his screen. His voice was flat, lethal. “An old dog from the Marino family. Or someone pretending to be him. Either way, they’ve just declared war.”
“If it’s Vance, it doesn’t make sense,” Clara analyzed, her tactical mind instantly clicking back into gear despite the chaos in her personal life. “The engagement was supposed to solidify the truce between your father and Don Marino. Attacking our shipment on day one of the alliance is suicide. It means either Vance has gone rogue, or…”
“Or Isabella’s father is testing us,” Gabriel finished for her. He finally closed the laptop with a sharp snap that echoed in the quiet cabin. He turned his dark, intense gaze onto her. “You thought of that immediately.”
“I’m your chief of operations, Gabriel. Not just your assistant.”
“You’re everything,” he muttered, reaching out to snag a lock of her dark hair, tucking it behind her ear with a roughness that bordered on possession. “Remember that when we walk into the warehouse. Stay behind me.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I said stay behind me.”
The Navigator slowed to a crawl before killing its headlights entirely, rolling silently into the shadows of Pier 42. The massive corrugated metal warehouse loomed ahead like a rusted beast in the mist coming off Lake Michigan.
The driver, a hulking, silent man named Viktor, cut the engine. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a suppressed H&K MP5, handing it back to Gabriel. Gabriel checked the magazine with a practiced, fluid motion, then slid a smaller Beretta 9mm across the leather seat toward Clara.
Clara looked at the gun. Then up at Gabriel.
“I thought I was just the administrative help,” she said dryly.
“You’re the one who negotiated the security contracts for this district,” Gabriel replied, his eyes dark and hard. “You know every blind spot in this building. If anyone tries to flank us, I need you to see it before they pull the trigger.”
Clara didn’t hesitate. She picked up the Beretta, felt its familiar, comforting weight, and tucked it securely into the waistband of her trousers beneath her wool coat.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
The side door of the warehouse had been forced open; the heavy steel latch was twisted backward like a broken limb. Gabriel stepped through the threshold first, his weapon raised, moving with the silent, deadly grace of a panther. Clara was right on his heels, scanning the shadows above the towering stacks of shipping containers.
The air inside smelled of salt water, diesel fuel, and something metallic.
Blood.
Gabriel raised his left hand, signaling a halt. Ten feet ahead of them, slumped against a pallet of imported Italian tiles, was one of Costa’s night guards. His throat had been cut cleanly, his eyes wide and glassy, staring up at the cavernous rafters.
Gabriel crouched beside the body, checking a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. He touched the blood on the floor; it was still warm.
“They’re still here,” Gabriel whispered.
Suddenly, the floodlights high above the ceiling flickered and roared to life, blindingly bright.
“Well, well, well,” a voice echoed through the massive iron cavern, bouncing off the walls from a megaphone somewhere near the crane controls. “The groom of the year. Leaving your new bride already, Costa? What would the sweet little Isabella say if she knew you were out slumming with your secretary?”
Gabriel didn’t shout back. He didn’t flinch. He simply raised his rifle toward the catwalk seventy feet above, where a silhouette stood leaning against the railing, holding a lit cigarette that glowed like a dying star in the vast emptiness.
“Vance,” Gabriel called out, his voice echoing smoothly across the warehouse floor. “You’re getting old, Thomas. Sending a message with a phone call? I expected a bomb. At least show some imagination.”
“Times change, kid,” Vance’s raspy laugh echoed down. “The old ways are dead. Just like your cargo.”
Vance pointed down with his cigarette toward the center aisle between the containers.
Clara’s breath hitched. Stacked neatly against the wooden pallets were half a dozen industrial-sized drums marked with flammable warning labels. And running directly from them was a thin, glowing trail of blue liquid—accelerant.
“A wedding present,” Vance shouted, raising a heavy lighter in his hand. “From the Marinos. Tell your new father-in-law we accept his terms.”
“Gabriel!” Clara hissed, grabbing his arm. “The sprinkler system—it’s manual control by the back office. If we run—”
“We don’t run,” Gabriel interrupted. His eyes locked onto the distant figure on the catwalk. He didn’t look at the fire; he looked only at the man holding the lighter.
“Gabriel, he’s going to drop it!”
“Let him try.”
With a terrifying calm, Gabriel raised his rifle, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The suppressed pop was swallowed instantly by the cavernous acoustics of the warehouse.
On the catwalk, Vance dropped the lighter as a bullet punched straight through his shoulder, spinning him hard against the metal railing.
“Get the valve!” Gabriel yelled to Viktor, who had just stepped through the door.
May you like
As Viktor sprinted toward the emergency water system, Gabriel grabbed Clara by the waist, shoving her down behind a heavy steel container just as a stray bullet from Vance’s dying guards ricocheted off the metal inches above their heads, showering them in sparks.
***
