Chapter 8 - Fire on the River
The old brick warehouse on the East River smelled of rotting fish, diesel fuel, and fear.
Emma was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the damp, concrete-floored room.
Vito Moretti stood in front of her, pacing back and forth with a silver pistol dangling casually from his right hand. His face was bruised, his expensive suit stained with sweat, and his eyes wild with the frantic energy of a rat cornered in a burning building.
“Your little boyfriend thinks he owns the city,” Moretti spat, walking over and grabbing Emma by her chin, forcing her to look up. “He took my money. He took my docks. So I’m going to take the one thing he actually cares about.”
Emma spat right into Moretti’s face.
Moretti’s hand drew back to strike her across the cheek—
CRASH!
The heavy steel corrugated doors of the warehouse blew inward in a cloud of blinding white light and shattering glass.
Before Moretti could even pull the trigger, a flash-bang grenade rolled across the concrete floor, detonating with a deafening BANG that filled the room with blinding white smoke and roaring concussive force.
“Federal Agents! Nobody move!”
“Clear the left flank!”
“Down on the ground! Do it now!”
Men in heavy tactical gear came rappelling through the high skylights while Ethan’s private security team swarmed through the blown-out front entrance like a swarm of angry hornets.
Gunfire echoed off the brick walls—short, controlled, professional bursts that took out Moretti’s remaining guards before they could even raise their weapons.
Moretti stumbled backward, grabbing Emma by the hair and pressing the cold barrel of his pistol against her temple.
“Stay back!” Moretti screamed, dragging her up out of the chair. “Stay back or I blow her brains out right now!”
The heavy double doors at the front of the warehouse rolled open all the way.
The rain had started again, falling in a steady, heavy sheet.
Through the gap in the doorway, framed by the blinding headlights of three armored SUVs, rolled a single motorized wheelchair.
Dominic Kane sat alone in the center of the entrance.
He wore no armor.
He carried no rifle.
Yet as he rolled slowly across the threshold into the warehouse, the temperature in the room dropped so fast the breath of everyone present turned to white mist.
Moretti’s hands shook visibly. “Stay back, Kane! I swear to God I’ll pull the trigger!”
Dominic stopped his chair ten feet away.
His dark eyes weren't looking at the gun pointed at Emma’s head.
They were looking directly into Moretti’s terrified eyes.
“You have two seconds, Vito,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm, carrying across the silent warehouse.
“Are you insane?!” Moretti shrieked. “I’ll kill her!”
“You can try,” Dominic replied softly. “And within three seconds, my sniper in the rafters will put a hollow-point bullet through your right eye. But long before you hit the floor, my men will take everything your family owns, burn your houses to ash, and salt the earth where your ancestors are buried.”
Dominic leaned forward in his chair, his massive shoulders tensing.
“Let her go.”
Moretti looked at Dominic’s face—the cold, dead eyes of a man who had already died twice and had nothing left to lose.
Moretti’s courage snapped.
He shoved Emma forward toward Dominic’s chair and bolted for the back exit toward the river.
He didn't make it three steps.
Ethan stepped out from behind a concrete pillar and planted the butt of a heavy tactical shotgun squarely into Moretti’s chest, sending the mobster crashing backward onto the concrete.
Dominic didn't look at Moretti.
His motorized chair hummed forward, stopping right in front of Emma where she knelt on the damp concrete, trembling and catching her breath.
May you like
Dominic reached out with both hands, grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her toward him, burying her face against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” Dominic whispered, his voice rough and cracking slightly around the edges. “You’re safe.”
