Chapter 7 - Blood on the Iron Docks
The warehouse devolved into pure, unadulterated chaos.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the fog like lightning as Falco’s men fired frantically into the dark aisles between shipping containers. But the protection pack didn't attack blindly. They moved with tactical coordination, driving guards out of cover and directly into Holden’s field of fire.
Holden drew his dual Kimber .45s, moving through the crossfire with terrifying grace.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Every shot was lethal, precise, and calculated. Holden advanced up the main concrete aisle, dropping mercenaries as they scrambled away from Phantom’s furious assault.
Phantom leaped onto a container wall, using the iron ridges to bound ten feet into the air, crashing down on Falco’s chief tactical officer. The dog dragged him into the gloom, eliminating the secondary command structure in seconds.
Up on the metal walkway, Falco watched his security force evaporate in less than three minutes.
"Useless bastards!" Falco roared.
He turned and sprinted back toward the server room, pulling a digital detonator from his pocket. If he couldn't get the thirty billion dollars, he would trigger the thermite charges planted on the server tower and blow the entire warehouse into the harbor.
He burst into the server room, slamming the heavy iron door behind him and throwing the deadbolt shut.
"Come on... come on..." Falco muttered, his hands shaking as he typed the arming code into the detonator screen.
CRASH!
The heavy iron door didn't unlatch; it buckled inward with a terrifying metallic groan.
Falco spun around, his revolver raised. "Stay back!"
CRASH!
The hinges snapped. The entire iron door was torn from its frame, crashing onto the linoleum floor.
Standing in the dust and steam of the doorway was Holden Cross. His face was splattered with oil and blood, his wool coat torn at the shoulder, but his eyes were completely clear, cold, and dark.
Beside him stood Phantom, his chest wet with blood that wasn't his own, his breath coming in low, ragged gasps of pure adrenaline.
Falco backed up against the blinking server tower, holding the detonator high.
"Step back, Holden!" Falco screamed, his voice high-pitched with terror. "I press this button, and the thermite goes off! The whole pier burns! Your daughter's inheritance, the evidence, you, me—everything!"
Holden didn't stop walking. He stepped into the room, his boots crunching on glass.
"You killed Clara," Holden said, his voice barely louder than a whisper, yet terrifying in its absolute stillness. "You made my daughter live in the dirt for three weeks."
"She was a asset!" Falco yelled, his thumb hovering over the red button. "In our world, assets get liquidated!"
Holden stopped three feet from him. He didn't raise his gun.
"You don't understand our world, Dominic," Holden said softly. "You thought power was money. You thought power was fear."
Holden looked down at the dog beside him.
"Phantom," Holden commanded softly. "Cattura."
Phantom didn't lunge for Falco’s throat.
With blinding speed, the massive dog snapped his jaws around Falco’s right wrist—the hand holding the detonator. The bone shattered instantly under seven hundred pounds of pressure.
Falco let out an agonizing shriek as the detonator dropped harmlessly to the floor. Holden caught the device in mid-air with his left hand, turning off the arming sequence with a single thumb-press.
Holden stepped close, catching Falco by his throat with his right hand, lifting the fifty-year-old crime lord off his feet until his boots dangled above the floor.
"Clara gave you a choice eight years ago," Holden whispered into Falco’s ear. "You chose wrong."
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Holden didn't pull the trigger. He threw Falco through the glass window of the server room.
Falco crashed through the glass, falling thirty feet to the hard concrete floor of the dock below, where Vance and six federal marshals were waiting with open handcuffs.
