Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at Pier 14
The old dry dock at Pier 14 smelled of rusted iron, rotting timber, and the brackish salt of the Delaware River.
Dawn was breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. A thick blanket of fog rolled off the water, obscuring the skeletal frames of half-built container ships and towering gantry cranes.
Viktor Sloane stood inside the abandoned machine shop at the center of the pier, leaning against a steel workbench. Two armed thugs stood by the corrugated metal door, their submachine guns resting casually across their chests. On the workbench lay a single manila folder containing the asset transfer documents.
The heavy roar of a truck engine echoed from outside.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel stopped just fifty yards away.
Viktor smiled, adjusting his silk tie. “He’s here. Remember, boys—keep him alive just long enough to sign the papers. After that, he takes a permanent swim in the channel.”
The sliding metal door of the machine shop groaned open.
Dominic Caruso stepped into the dim interior of the warehouse. He walked alone, his hands empty and visible at his sides, his dark overcoat billowing slightly in the cold river breeze.
“Dominic!” Viktor purred, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend. “I must admit, I didn't think you had the stomach to show up after the mess at the Bellmont. Where’s your little model girlfriend? Did she finally realize you’re a sinking ship?”
Dominic stopped twenty feet away, his face expressionless.
“Save the speech, Viktor,” Dominic said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Where are the papers?”
“Right here,” Viktor tapped the folder on the desk. “Sign them, transfer the proxy codes to the Camden accounts, and we’ll hand over the forged evidence linking you to the fire. You walk out of here a free man. You can take your money, leave the country, and start over.”
“And my family?” Dominic asked.
Viktor chuckled darkly. “Evelyn made her choice when she decided to play hero at St. Catherine. Accidents happen in maternity wards every day, Dominic. You should know that better than anyone.”
A microscopic shift occurred in Dominic’s eyes. The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing.
“You’re right, Viktor,” Dominic said softly. “Accidents do happen.”
Before Viktor could process the change in tone, Dominic’s hand whipped inside his coat.
Bang.
The gunshot shattered the silence of the dawn. The bullet caught the thug on the left square in the chest, spinning him backward into a stack of rusted oil drums.
“Kill him!” Viktor screamed, diving behind the steel workbench as the second thug raised his weapon.
Before the man could squeeze the trigger, a barrage of automatic gunfire erupted from the shadows above the gantry crane rails. David Pierce and three tactical operatives opened fire from the catwalks, riddling the second thug with rounds before he could even fire a shot.
Viktor scrambled on his hands and knees toward the side exit, clawing at the concrete floor like a trapped rat.
Footsteps approached. A polished leather shoe stepped down firmly on Viktor’s hand, pinning his fingers to the floor.
Viktor shrieked in agony, looking up to see Dominic standing over him, his expression cold and dead as winter.
“Please,” Viktor gasped, blood pooling beneath his chest from a stray fragment. “Dominic... we’re partners. We’re businessmen!”
“We were never partners, Viktor,” Dominic said, leveling his Sig Sauer right between the lawyer’s terrified eyes. “You’re a parasite that forgot who owned the host.”
“Wait! The feds—they’re coming! If you kill me, you’ll never find out where the Camden Outfit is hiding their offshore reserves!”
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“I don't need to find them,” Dominic replied, his voice flat and absolute. “My wife already handed their entire server network to the U.S. Attorney’s office an hour ago. You’re not a witness, Viktor. You’re just trash.”
The gunshot echoed across the Delaware River, swallowed instantly by the roaring sound of the morning tide rolling in from the Atlantic.
