Chapter 8 - The Battle at Pier 42
Midnight arrived with a bitter, freezing rain sweeping across the dark waters of the Hudson River.
The abandoned grain silo at Pier 42 loomed out of the darkness like a decaying concrete monolith. Inside, six heavily armed Iron Dog mercenaries stood around two running diesel generators, their automatic weapons held at the ready.
At the center of the room stood Victor Vane—a ruthless mercenary leader with a scarred neck and a cold, mechanical demeanor.
The rusted iron doors of the silo creaked open.
Lorenzo DeLuca walked into the high-ceilinged chamber, flanked only by Marco Bruno and Frank Corradi. Lorenzo wore a heavy wool trench coat, his hands resting casually in his pockets, completely unbothered by the heavy rifles aimed at his chest.
“DeLuca,” Victor sneered, stepping forward. “You’re punctual. I like that in a dead man.”
“Where are the hospital supplies, Victor?” Lorenzo asked flatly, his voice echoing in the vast concrete space.
Victor laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “Carmine Moretti sends his regards from Chicago. He wanted you to know that your city isn't safe anymore. The medical supplies are currently on a barge heading down the coast to be resold in Mexico. And you... you aren't leaving this silo.”
Victor raised his hand to give the signal to his snipers perched on the catwalks forty feet above.
Lorenzo didn't move an inch. He simply checked his father’s silver pocket watch—which had been fully repaired by a master jeweler in Manhattan, its hands ticking smoothly at 12:05.
“You’re five minutes late, Victor,” Lorenzo said softly.
Before Victor could comprehend the statement, the high glass windows near the roof of the silo shattered in a thunderous spray of glass.
Four tactical flashbang grenades dropped from the darkness above, exploding in a blinding, deafening storm of white light and thunderous booms.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The mercenaries screamed, dropping their weapons as they clutched their blinded eyes and bleeding ears.
From the dark corners of the upper catwalks, twelve of Lorenzo’s elite perimeter enforcers—who had snuck into the silo hours before via the harbor water pipes—flooded the catwalks, their silenced automatic weapons firing with lethal, surgical precision.
Within thirty seconds, all six mercenaries were disarmed and pinned face-down against the cold, wet concrete floor.
Lorenzo walked slowly over to Victor, who was lying on his back, gasping for air, a laser sight pointed directly between his eyes.
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Lorenzo crouched down beside the mercenary leader, pulling a heavy satellite phone from his coat pocket and tossing it onto Victor’s chest.
“Call Carmine Moretti,” Lorenzo commanded coldly. “Tell him that if I see another one of his men in New York, I won't send back warnings. I will come to Chicago myself.”
