Chapter 13 - Midnight at Pier 42
The abandoned railway yards on the Chicago waterfront loomed out of the swirling autumn fog like the skeletal ribs of a rotting leviathan.
Our convoy of three matte-black armored SUVs cut their headlights a half-mile away, rolling silently through the rusted iron gates under the cover of a freezing drizzle.
Marco and his tactical strike team fanned out into the shadows with military precision, securing the perimeter within seconds.
Damian kept me firmly tucked behind his broad shoulder as we moved toward a massive, corrugated-steel warehouse at the center of the yard.
Through a cracked upper-level office window, a faint yellow light flickered against the damp glass.
“He’s inside,” Damian whispered, signaling Marco to cut the main power grid.
With a muffled thud, the warehouse plunged into absolute darkness.
Before the guards inside could react, the heavy steel side door was blown inward with a quiet, controlled tactical charge.
Flashbang grenades detonated with blinding white brilliance and a deafening concussion, followed instantly by the sharp, suppressed pops of professional firearms.
“Clear!” Marco’s voice echoed across the cavernous interior.
Damian pulled me inside, leading me past rows of stacked shipping containers toward a rusted iron staircase leading up to the second-floor office.
As we reached the top landing, the office door swung open, and a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive Italian suit stood leaning calmly against a mahogany desk, holding a glass of amber whiskey.
Viktor Moretti.
He looked older than his photographs, with cold, predatory eyes and a thin, cruel smile playing across his lips.
“Damian,” Moretti purred smoothly, raising his whiskey glass in a mocking toast.
“I wondered when the king of Chicago would finally grace my humble workspace.”
“It ends tonight, Viktor,” Damian stated, his voice like grinding ice as he raised his weapon, keeping me safely behind his arm.
Moretti let out a dark, raspy laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“You think I’m the end of the line, Vescari?” Moretti smiled, his eyes shifting toward me with a chilling, sadistic gleam.
“You’ve been so busy protecting your little waitress that you didn't even notice the real bomb ticking beneath your own roof.”
My blood ran instantly cold.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, stepping out from behind Damian.
May you like
Moretti chuckled, pressing a small silver button on his desk remote.
“While you’re playing hero down at the docks, my secondary extraction team is currently paying a very quiet, very permanent visit... to little Luca.”
