Chapter 4 - Into the Storm
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The convoy of SUVs rolled to a silent halt a quarter-mile from the perimeter of Pier 44. The rain was relentless, acting as a natural sound barrier against the crashing waves of the harbor.
Victor stepped out into the mud, ignoring the freezing water soaking instantly through his expensive slacks. He signaled with a sharp, downward motion of his hand. Twelve men, dressed in black tactical gear and armed with suppressed submachine guns, fanned out into the shadows.
“The tracker shows them inside Warehouse Seven,” Marcus whispered, falling into step beside Victor. “There’s only one vehicle parked out front. Gregory’s Mercedes.”
“He thinks he’s pulled off the perfect crime,” Victor murmured, his eyes fixed on the massive, rusted corrugated iron structure looming in the darkness. “He wouldn't bring backup. He wants to keep the five million from the Romanovs all to himself.”
They moved quickly and silently, ghosting between stacked shipping containers. Victor’s mind was terrifyingly clear. The grief and rage that had threatened to consume him back at the estate had been compressed into a cold, diamond-hard focus.
He approached the side door of the warehouse. It was locked, but the heavy metal frame was corroded by years of sea salt.
Marcus stepped forward with a specialized breaching tool. With a quiet, localized crunch, the lock snapped.
Victor raised his Glock 19. He took a slow, deep breath, letting the icy air fill his lungs. He remembered the promise he had made to a three-year-old child.
I'm going to get her.
He nodded to Marcus.
They slipped through the door, entering the vast, pitch-black interior of the warehouse. The only light came from a single lantern illuminating a small clearing in the center of the room.
Victor’s eyes instantly locked onto the scene. Hannah Bell was on the floor, her hands bound, her face pale with absolute terror. Standing over her was the man who had been Victor’s right hand for over a decade.
Gregory raised his pistol, aiming it at Hannah’s chest.
Victor didn't shout. He didn't announce his presence. He didn't give the traitor a final chance to explain himself.
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In the world of the mafia, talking got people killed.
Victor raised his weapon, aligned the glowing night sights directly with Gregory’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger.
