Chapter 12 - Blood And Salt At Terminal Four
Terminal Four smelled of rusted iron, diesel exhaust, and salt water churning against rotten pilings.
Massive cargo cranes loomed over the gray waterfront like ancient steel skeletons against the overcast sky.
When the convoy came to a halt between rows of stacked shipping containers, sixteen heavily armed guards spilled out, forming a tight perimeter around Luca’s vehicle.
Luca stepped out first, extending his hand to guide me down onto the wet asphalt.
He then lifted Mia into his arms, settling her against his chest where her little hands gripped the lapels of his dark wool coat.
Salvatore, the captain from Brooklyn, was already waiting beneath the rusted overhang of Warehouse Nine, flanked by five of his most trusted enforcers.
Salvatore’s hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his eyes darting quickly between Luca, me, and the child.
“Don Luca,” Salvatore greeted, bowing his head with practiced formality, though his jaw remained rigid.
“The docks are secured. The federal investigators cleared the pier an hour ago after Julian’s body washed up near the ferry slip.”
“Did the Chicago syndicate contact you?” Luca asked, cutting straight through the pleasantries without slowing his stride.
Salvatore hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes sliding toward the floor.
“No direct contact, Don Luca. Just chatter on the encrypted frequencies. They’re claiming Julian owed them fifteen million dollars for guaranteed transit rights through the harbor.”
Mia tilted her head, peering down at Salvatore through her oversized sunglasses.
“That man has a shiny pin on his coat,” Mia whispered innocently, pointing a tiny finger at Salvatore’s lapel.
My breath hitched in my chest.
Pinned discreetly under the fold of Salvatore’s leather lapel was a miniature silver clasp—a predator’s talon gripping an unbroken ring.
It was the personal insignia of the Moretti family, the bloodthirsty Chicago syndicate Julian had been conspiring with behind Luca’s back.
Salvatore’s face drained of color as he instinctively reached to cover the lapel with his hand.
“Mia sees everything, Salvatore,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a deathly, icy whisper that silenced the wind off the bay.
The surrounding guards shifted their grips on their submachine guns, safety catches clicking off in unison with a sound like snapping bones.
Salvatore took a frantic half-step backward, raising both hands into the air.
“Luca, listen to me!” Salvatore stammered, panic finally cracking his polished composure.
“The Morettis offered us forty percent of the northern distribution if we stood down during the Marseille raid! Julian said you were already compromised by the feds! We thought the ship was sinking!”
“The only ship sinking today is yours,” Luca answered cold as ice.
Before Salvatore could pull the compact pistol tucked behind his belt, a deafening shot cracked from the high catwalk of the crane above us.
A sniper’s bullet sparked violently off the reinforced hood of Luca’s SUV, inches from where I was standing.
“Ambush!” Marco roared, diving to push me behind the open steel door of the armored vehicle.
Gunfire erupted across the wet pier, echoing like thunder claps against the hollow shipping containers.
Salvatore’s enforcers drew their weapons, but Luca moved with the lethal speed of a seasoned combatant.
Without dropping Mia, Luca drew his customized pistol from his shoulder holster with one fluid motion and fired twice.
Salvatore collapsed backward onto the salt-covered pavement, two rounds centered squarely through his chest.
“Keep her head down!” Luca shouted over the roar of automatic fire, thrusting Mia toward me inside the open door of the SUV.
I pulled my daughter onto the floorboards, wrapping my entire body over her shaking form as bullets ricocheted off the armored frame.
Mia didn't scream; she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed Barnaby tight against her ears, repeating the words I had taught her in the linen cupboard:
“Quiet game. Quiet game. Quiet game.”
Luca did not seek cover inside the vehicle.
Instead, he advanced behind the shield of an open steel crate, firing methodically at the muzzle flashes flickering from the warehouse roof.
His men moved in tight tactical wedges, returning heavy suppressive fire that quickly dismantled the rival ambush.
Within ninety seconds, the roar of gunfire sputtered into isolated, dying pops, replaced by the screams of wounded men and the hum of diesel engines in retreat.
Luca walked back toward our SUV, his weapon lowered, a single streak of dark crimson tracing down his left cheek where a shard of ricochet glass had sliced the skin.
He reached inside, his large hand gently resting on the top of Mia’s head.
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“The game is won, little boss,” Luca breathed, his chest heaving as the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the sea air.
“You called out the wolf before he could bite.”
