Chapter 8 - The Betrayal at the Docks
Three weeks later, the war for Moretti Maritime reached its breaking point.
Julian Moretti hadn't stayed in Singapore. Backed by a rival syndicate from Vancouver, he had secretly returned to Seattle, organizing a strike among the rogue factions of the dockworkers' union to seize Pier 91—the primary distribution hub for Moretti Maritime.
It was two in the morning when the call came.
Clara was sleeping peacefully in the guest suite of the Moretti estate when the sound of raised voices woke her.
She pulled on a silk robe and hurried down the dark hall toward the library.
The oak doors were cracked open. Inside, Lorenzo was strapping a heavy leather holster beneath his dark suit jacket, flanked by Frank Rossi and six heavily armed security operatives.
"They've blocked the south gate of Pier 91," Frank reported, his face grim. "Julian brought twenty guys from Canada. They're holding three of our night supervisors hostage in the crane office."
"We go in hard," Lorenzo ordered, his voice cold as ice. "No calls to the police. We settle this tonight."
"Lorenzo!" Clara called out, pushing the door open.
Lorenzo turned. When he saw her standing in the doorway, his hard expression cracked slightly.
"Go back to bed, Clara," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "This doesn't concern you."
"You're walking into an ambush!" Clara cried, stepping into the room. "Julian knows you'll come to Pier 91! He wants you on the docks where he can isolate you!"
Lorenzo walked over to her, taking her face gently in his large hands. "I have fought Julian for ten years, Clara. He is a coward. When he sees Frank's team, he'll run."
"Lorenzo, please—"
He kissed her quickly, fiercely on the lips. "Stay with my mother. I will be back by sunrise."
Before she could argue further, Lorenzo turned and walked out of the library, his heavy squad of men following close behind.
Clara stood in the quiet room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She looked at the mahogany desk. Laying beside the laptop was a printed map of Pier 91, marked with red ink around the Sub-Level Storage Vaults.
Clara’s medical brain instantly analyzed the map. Sub-Level Storage was forty feet below sea level, accessible by a single industrial elevator—a total kill-box if the power was cut.
"He doesn't know," Clara whispered to herself, terror freezing her blood. "Julian isn't waiting at the crane office. He's baiting him down to the vaults."
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She didn't call the police. She didn't call Frank.
She ran back to her room, pulled on her jeans, sweater, and boots, grabbed her trauma kit from her bag, and ran straight out to the garage where her old Honda Civic—repaired and returned by Frank three weeks ago—was parked.
