Chapter 5 - The Night at Pier 12
The rain had returned by the time our convoy of four armored Suburbans tore through the rusted chain-link gates of Pier 12.
The abandoned dry docks were a cathedral of rust and shadow. Giant container cranes loomed like skeletal giants against the bruised night sky, their cables groaning in the ocean wind. In the center of the main concrete basin, bathed in the harsh halogen glare of portable generators, stood Marcus Delaney.
He had Tommy tied to a wooden chair, a burlap sack over his head, and standing right beside him, gripping the edge of Marcus’s heavy trench coat with trembling hands, was Lily.
My niece.
I stepped out of the lead vehicle alone, my hands raised visibly at my sides, my heavy wool coat snapping in the wind.
“Marcus!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the hiss of the rain and the roar of the dark water below. “Let the kids go! This is between you and me!”
Marcus stepped forward into the light, holding a heavy Browning Hi-Power pistol loosely in his right hand. He looked older tonight—his silver hair disheveled, his tailored suit stained with grease and mud. The mask of the polished corporate executive was completely gone, replaced by the desperate, feral grin of a cornered rat.
“Caleb!” Marcus shouted back, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls of the shipyards. “You always did know how to make an entrance! Too bad it’s your last one!”
He gestured with his gun toward Lily.
“Look at her, Caleb! Your brother’s flesh and blood! I kept her alive for twelve years just so I could use her as a trump card against your paranoid empire! And what does she do? She sneaks out of the safehouse, runs across the city in a rainstorm, and blows my entire multi-million-dollar assassination plot in five seconds!”
Lily looked up at Marcus, then past him, her eyes locking onto mine.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just gave me a tiny, imperceptible nod—the exact same nod my brother Julian used to give me when we were boys heading into trouble.
“You lost, Marcus,” I said, taking a slow step forward. “Your ledgers are in federal hands. Your offshore accounts are frozen. Your men are scattered. Even if you kill me tonight, you won't live to see sunrise.”
Marcus’s face twisted in rage. “I don't need the money, Caleb! I need you dead! I built this city, not you!”
He raised the pistol, aiming it straight at my chest.
“Say goodbye to the family business,” Marcus snarled.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Marcus blinked, staring down at the gun in sheer disbelief. He pulled the slide back—nothing. The magazine was empty.
A heavy, dark chuckle echoed from the shadows behind Marcus.
“Looking for this, asshole?”
Marcus spun around. Stepping out from behind a stack of rusted shipping containers was Adrian Pike, holding Marcus’s primary sidearm—the one Adrian had quietly pickpocketed off Marcus’s hip during the boardroom meeting three hours ago.
Before Marcus could scream, the darkness around the dry docks erupted.
From the catwalks above, from the shadow of the cranes, and from the doors of the Suburbans, a dozen of Leon’s elite enforcers swarmed the yard, their weapons raised, laser sights painting a web of crimson dots across Marcus’s chest.
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“Drop it, Marcus,” Leon commanded, stepping out of the darkness and racking the bolt of his rifle.
Marcus slowly dropped the empty Browning. It hit the concrete with a dull metallic clatter. He looked around him, realizing with absolute, crushing finality that he had walked into a slaughterhouse of his own making.
