Chapter 2 - The Red Dot
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The interior of the armored SUV was completely silent, save for the rhythmic, aggressive swiping of the windshield wipers. Victor sat in the passenger seat, his eyes locked onto the glowing red dot on the tablet resting in his lap. The dot was moving steadily toward the industrial sector of the harbor.
Marcus was driving, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. Two more SUVs followed closely behind them, packed with Victor’s most lethal enforcers.
“He thinks he’s a ghost,” Marcus muttered, breaking the heavy silence. “Fourteen years, Victor. He played the long game. I never saw it.”
“Neither did I,” Victor replied, his tone dangerously calm. “That is my failure. I let the routine blind me. I looked at Gregory and saw history instead of a threat.”
Victor pulled a heavy, matte-black Glock 19 from his shoulder holster. He checked the magazine with practiced, mechanical precision. The metallic click-clack of the slide echoed loudly in the confined space of the vehicle.
He thought about Hannah Bell. She had only worked at Harrow Point for six months. A quiet, diligent widow who kept her head down and scrubbed floors to provide for her little girl. Victor had barely spoken more than ten words to her before today. Yet, when he had accused her of stealing the ledgers hours ago, she hadn't cried. She had looked him dead in the eye and told him he was wrong.
He had confined her to the estate, promising to interrogate her later. He had served her on a silver platter to the real traitor.
“The dot stopped,” Victor said suddenly.
Marcus glanced at the screen. The red beacon was stationary at the edge of Pier 44. It was an abandoned sector of the docks, a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and rotting wood.
“He’s out of the car,” Marcus noted, accelerating. “We’re five minutes away, Boss.”
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“Cut the headlights when we hit the perimeter,” Victor ordered. “I don't want him panicked. If he gets spooked, he’ll put a bullet in her head before we can breach the doors.”
Victor stared into the black, rain-swept night. He had sworn to himself twelve years ago, standing over the graves of his wife and son, that he would never let innocent blood spill on his watch again. He was going to keep his promise to the little girl in the yellow duck pajamas, even if he had to burn the city to the ground to do it.
