Chapter 6 - The Battle at the Riverfront
By 11:30 P.M., thick fog had rolled in off Lake Michigan, wrapping the abandoned docks of the Chicago River in a cold, grey shroud.
At Warehouse 14—the old shipping terminal that Adrian had been planning to demolish to build a public park—four black SUVs sat idling in the gravel lot.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse, Julian Vance stood beside Dimitri Volkov, a massive, heavily scarred Russian man in a fur-collared coat. Behind them stood twelve heavily armed mercenaries carrying automatic weapons.
“He won't come alone,” Julian said nervously, looking at his watch. “Adrian is smart. He’ll bring federal agents or his private security crew.”
“Let him bring who he wants,” Volkov grunted, lighting a thick cigar. “In ten minutes, this whole sector belongs to my family. You gave me the docks, Julian. I give you Cross’s head.”
Suddenly, the heavy metal halogen lights hanging from the warehouse ceiling flared to life!
BZZZZZT!
The blinding white light illuminated every corner of the dark space.
Before the mercenaries could adjust their vision, the main loading bay doors were suddenly blown off their tracks by a localized explosive charge!
BOOM!
Dust, concrete fragments, and blinding smoke flooded the warehouse.
Through the haze walked a single figure.
Adrian Cross stepped into the warehouse alone. He wore no helmet, no tactical gear, only a dark coat over his vest. In his right hand, he held a single suppressed pistol pointed toward the floor.
“Volkov!” Adrian’s voice boomed through the echoing steel girders of the building. “You came a long way from Brighton Park to die in my city!”
“Shoot him!” Julian screamed, ducking behind Volkov’s mercenaries. “Kill him now!”
The mercenaries raised their rifles, but before the first shot could be fired, the glass skylights twenty feet above them shattered inward!
CRASH!
Four ropes dropped from the ceiling, and Thomas Cole’s elite tactical team descended into the room, unleashing a devastating storm of non-lethal flash-bangs and precision suppressed gunfire!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The warehouse dissolved into absolute chaos. Smoke filled the air, laser sights crisscrossed through the darkness, and the deafening pops of tactical detonations echoed off the metal walls.
Adrian moved through the smoke like a ghost.
He didn't fire wildly. He advanced with ruthless, terrifying precision, neutralizing mercenaries with swift, devastating strikes—a disarmed rifle here, a heavy strike to the jaw there, dropping men before they even realized where the attack was coming from.
Volkov tried to raise a heavy shotgun, but Adrian closed the distance in two seconds flat.
Adrian grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, twisted it violently outward, shattering Volkov’s wrist, and brought his heavy elbow across the Russian boss’s face!
THWACK!
Volkov hit the concrete floor like a felled oak, unconscious before he even bled.
The remaining mercenaries, realizing they were entirely outmatched by a professional tactical force, threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.
Silence returned to the warehouse, broken only by the hiss of smoke and the groans of wounded men.
Adrian turned his gaze toward the far corner of the loading bay.
Julian Vance was crawling toward a side exit, his face covered in concrete dust, weeping in terror.
Adrian walked over slowly, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor. He stopped directly over the crawling underboss, stepping on Julian’s ankle to pin him to the ground.
Julian turned onto his back, looking up at Adrian with wide, pathetic eyes.
“Adrian... please!” Julian begged, clasping his hands together. “We were family! Your father—I served your father for twenty years!”
“My father died ten years ago, Julian,” Adrian said quietly, pointing his pistol directly down at the space between Julian’s eyes. “And you spent the last five years trying to drag me back into his grave.”
Julian trembled violently, closing his eyes, waiting for the fatal shot.
Adrian stood over him for three long seconds. The silence hung heavy in the air.
Slowly, Adrian lowered the barrel of his gun.
“I promised Audrey I would keep my hands clean,” Adrian whispered.
He looked up at Thomas Cole, who walked over with a pair of heavy zip-ties and an encrypted satellite phone already displaying an active call to the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Midwest division.
“Thomas,” Adrian said, handing over his gun. “Hand Mr. Vance and the Russians over to the federal authorities. Give them the silver drive with all the old Syndicate account ledgers. Let the law put him in a concrete cell for the rest of his natural life.”
Julian gaped in shock as Thomas pulled him up violently and kicked his legs out, pinning him for the federal agents who were already siren-wailing toward the docks.
Adrian pulled out his personal phone, dialed a saved number, and listened to it ring once.
“Adrian?” Audrey’s voice came through instantly, tight with tears and panic. “Are you okay?”
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Adrian looked out through the blown-out loading bay doors at the deep blue morning sky rising over Lake Michigan.
“It’s over, Audrey,” Adrian said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “I’m coming home.”
