Chapter 6 - The Ambush at Pier 42
The storm over Lake Michigan had turned violent by midnight.
Torrential rain battered the rusty metal roofs of the shipping warehouses at Pier 42. Thunder clapped overhead, illuminating the dark, abandoned crane towers in flashes of blinding white light.
Lucas stood inside Warehouse 9, surrounded by ten of his best armed men.
The floor was littered with burned wooden crates and charred shipping documents. In the center of the vast, empty room, sitting on an overturned steel drum, was a man.
He was in his late sixties, wearing a tailored wool coat. His face was scarred on the left side, covered in thick, pale tissue from an old burn, but his eyes—dark, greedy, and arrogant—were unmistakably those of Wendell Dracott.
"You grew up tall, nephew," Wendell said, his voice raspy, sounding like dry leaves sliding across pavement.
Lucas didn't move. His gun remained holstered at his hip, but his hand rested heavy on the grip.
"You killed my father," Lucas said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You killed my mother. You let me burn."
Wendell scoffed, tossing a lit cigarette onto the damp concrete. "Your father was weak, Lucas. He wanted to turn Dracott Maritime into a legitimate, soft enterprise. He was going to sell our port rights to the state. I did what was necessary to preserve the family name."
"You hid like a rat for twenty-five years," Lucas spat.
"I rebuilt our network in Europe!" Wendell stood up, his cane tapping sharply against the floor. "I let you build this city up, Lucas. You did a fine job. You expanded the ports, you bribed the politicians, you amassed billions. But you are just an adoptive pup. The Dracott bloodline belongs to me."
"My children carry the bloodline," Lucas said coldly.
Wendell’s scarred face twisted into a grotesque, yellow-toothed smile.
"Ah, yes. The janitor’s bastards," Wendell chuckled softly. "Do you really think I came back to fight you in this dirty warehouse, Lucas? Do you think I am that foolish?"
Lucas’s heart dropped into his stomach. A sudden, terrifying realization washed over him.
"Viktor..." Lucas whispered, pulling out his radio. "Viktor, status on the estate! Now!"
Static echoed through the radio. Then, a frantic, gunfire-laced voice broke through the speaker:
"Boss! They breached the south gate! It’s a decoy! They have heavy weapons—"
The transmission cut out into high-pitched static.
Wendell grinned, pulling a small remote detonator from his pocket. "I don't want your shipping ports, Lucas. I want the children. With them in my custody, you will sign over every share of Dracott Maritime to my European trust by tomorrow morning. Or I will send them back to you in boxes, just like your parents."
Lucas pulled his gun with blinding speed, pointing it straight between Wendell's eyes.
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"If you touch my family, Wendell," Lucas roared, "there isn't a hole on this earth deep enough to hide you from me!"
"Shoot me, and you'll never find the route my men are taking them," Wendell taunted, his thumb resting over a red button on the remote. "Drop the gun, nephew. Or the estate goes up in flames right now."
