Chapter 5 - The Trap at the Abandoned Dockyard
The heavy tires of the armored Maybach kicked up a violent spray of brackish rainwater and loose gravel as Viktor violently swung the luxury vehicle around a towering rusted stack of shipping containers.
The abandoned industrial dockyard loomed before us like a skeletal graveyard of forgotten commerce—peeling lead paint, shattered warehouse windows staring blindly into the gray mist, and the dark, churning waters of the East River lapping viciously against rotting wooden pylons.
Viktor slammed on the brakes, throwing the heavy car into a flawless, high-speed J-turn.
In a fraction of a second, the Maybach came to a screeching halt, facing backward toward the narrow access road we had just torn down, blocking the sole concrete entryway like an immovable black wall.
“Stay down in the footwell, Clara,” Marco ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, hardened register as he threw open his door and stepped out into the freezing rain, his weapon drawn and held low at his side.
Through the bulletproof rear window, I watched with my breath caught in my throat as the familiar gray sedan came screaming around the rusted corner, its engine roaring in desperate pursuit.
It didn't slow down.
Instead, the gray sedan attempted to slide around the side of our vehicle, its tires screeching against the slick asphalt.
Before the driver could recover control, Viktor gunned the Maybach’s engine, slamming the heavy rear quarter-panel of our armored car directly into the side of the sedan with a deafening metallic crunch.
The impact sent a violent tremor vibrating through our chassis, but the Maybach’s reinforced steel frame absorbed the blow effortlessly.
The gray sedan, however, spun wildly out of control, careening off a low concrete barrier before coming to a violent, smoking stop against a rusted iron crane tower.
Silence descended upon the desolate dockyard, broken only by the steady hiss of steam rising from the sedan’s ruined radiator and the relentless patter of cold autumn rain.
“Marco, secure the driver,” Dominic’s calm, chilling voice echoed once more through the car’s comms system. “And don't kill him yet. I want a conversation.”
“Got him, Boss,” Marco called back, his boots crunching over shattered glass as he cautiously approached the driver's side of the smoking wreckage, his weapon raised and trained directly through the shattered window frame.
I pulled Lily up from the footwell, clutching her so tightly to my chest that she let out a small squeal of protest.
“Mommy, you’re squishing Mr. Rabbit!” she complained, holding the gray stuffed animal up like a shield.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” I whispered frantically, pressing desperate kisses into her dark curls as my hands shook uncontrollably.
Through the tinted glass of the Maybach, I watched Marco violently haul a heavy-set figure out of the driver's seat of the ruined sedan, slamming him facedown onto the wet, oil-stained concrete.
Marco ripped the man's ski mask away, exposing a bruised, bloodied face with a familiar scar cutting across the left cheek.
My heart completely stopped beating.
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I knew that face.
It was a face from my past—a ghost I thought I had buried six feet under in Ohio four long years ago, before I ever stepped foot inside the gates of the Moretti estate.
