Chapter 6 - The Westin Ambush
The top-floor boardroom of the Westin Hotel was bathed in the warm light of crystal chandeliers, overlooking the glittering skyline of downtown Seattle and the dark expanse of Elliott Bay.
Inside, eleven men in tailored suits sat around a thirty-foot glass conference table.
At the head of the table sat Victor Moretti, smoking a thick Cuban cigar, a Montblanc pen resting casually in his right hand. Beside him sat Commissioner Vance of the Port Authority and Union President Frank Gallagher—a beefy, red-faced man who had taken fifty thousand dollars in bribes from Moretti over the last three days.
"Gentlemen," Victor said, his voice smooth as silk as he tapped the paper before them. "This document officially transfers operational control of Pier 42 to Moretti Logistics. With Caleb Marino confined to his bed, this is the only way to ensure the economic stability of our waterfront."
Frank Gallagher picked up the pen. "The dockworkers won't like it at first, Victor. They loved Marino. But a guy who can't even stand up to pee isn't going to feed their families."
"Sign the paper, Frank," Victor smiled, leaning back in his chair. "The Harbor King is dead. It’s time to move on."
Gallagher lowered the pen toward the signature line.
BANG!
The heavy oak double doors of the boardroom burst off their brass hinges, shattering inward with a deafening crash.
Two of Victor’s armed bodyguards posted at the door were thrown backward onto the carpet as Marco swept into the room, his suppressed pistol trained on the ceiling.
Behind Marco, ten heavily armed Marino security operatives flooded into the suite, securing the exits in four seconds flat.
The eleven men at the table jumped out of their chairs in absolute panic. Victor dropped his cigar, his hand reaching reflexively for the gun hidden beneath his suit jacket.
"Don't do it, Victor," Marco’s voice echoed across the room, deadly and cold.
Then came a sound that made every politician, commissioner, and union boss in the room freeze in utter terror.
Thump. Click. Thump. Click.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of leather shoes and a titanium cane echoed down the corridor.
I walked through the shattered doorway.
I wore my charcoal wool overcoat over my shoulders. I stood six-foot-two, my chin raised, my gray eyes sweeping over the room like twin spotlights. I leaned lightly on my cane, but my posture was straight as an arrow, my shoulders broad, carrying an aura of absolute, unshakeable authority.
Frank Gallagher’s jaw hit his chest. He dropped the Montblanc pen, his face going completely white.
"M-Marino?" Gallagher squeaked, staggering backward against his chair. "You're... you're walking?!"
The room erupted into a chaos of gasps and terrified whispers. The city council members backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking as if a literal corpse had walked out of the cemetery and into their board meeting.
Victor Moretti didn't move. He stood at the head of the table, his hand still frozen near his jacket, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at my legs.
"Impossible..." Victor whispered, his voice trembling for the first time in his life. "Your spine was severed... ninety-nine doctors..."
"Ninety-nine doctors were wrong, Victor," I said smoothly.
I walked down the length of the thirty-foot table, my heavy steps echoing in the quiet room. Each step was a deliberate display of strength, my titanium cane tapping against the hardwood floor like a death knell.
I stopped directly across from Victor, leaning both hands on the handle of my cane.
"I hear you were telling my union chief that I can't feed his families," I said, my voice dropping into a deep, gravelly purr that filled every corner of the suite.
"Caleb..." Victor stammered, sweat breaking out along his hairline. "This... this is a misunderstanding. We were just discussing a temporary partnership—"
"You bribed three commissioners," I interrupted, pointing my cane at the terrified men near the window. "You paid Frank Gallagher fifty grand to forge a union vote. And you threatened my family in my own home."
I pulled a black leather folder from my overcoat and tossed it onto the center of the glass table.
"Inside that file are twenty years of federal tax evasion, illegal weapons smuggling through Pier 91, and the bank account records in the Cayman Islands where you deposited the bribe money," I said flatly. "There is a team of federal prosecutors waiting in the lobby downstairs right now."
Victor’s eyes darted toward the file, then back to me. A look of desperate, animalistic fury crossed his features.
"You think you can come back here after eight years and take what’s mine?!" Victor screamed, finally pulling his snub-nosed revolver from his jacket.
He raised the gun toward my chest.
Before he could pull the trigger, I moved.
Eight years in a wheelchair hadn't erased twenty years of tactical combat training. I stepped forward, pivoting on my left leg, and slammed the heavy titanium handle of my cane directly into Victor’s wrist.
CRACK!
Victor shrieked as his wrist shattered. The revolver flew out of his hand, smashing through the glass table.
Before he could fall, I grabbed him by the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar suit, hauled his body up, and slammed him face-first onto the polished wood.
May you like
I stood over him, pressing the heavy tip of my titanium cane directly against the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor.
"Pier 42 is mine, Victor," I growled into his ear as he groaned in agony. "The harbor is mine. And if I ever see your face in this city again, you won't need a wheelchair. You'll need a casket."
