I came home three days early expecting to hunt down a traitor, but instead found my seventeen-year-old daughter bleeding in the kitchen, my silent six-year-old finally speaking, and the quiet maid holding a bullet pulled from her sister’s leg. / Chapter 60 / 71

Chapter 60 - Blood on the Docks

The interior of warehouse twelve was vast, cavernous, and dimly lit by flickering overhead sodium lamps that hummed with an irritating electrical whine.

Rows of stacked shipping crates stretched away into the shadows like monolithic tombs. At the far end of the warehouse, near the open bay doors overlooking the dark waters of Slip 4, four men in heavy tactical gear were gathered around a massive wooden crate resting on a hydraulic pallet jack.

One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down the left side of his neck—was barking orders in harsh Russian while holding a digital tablet connected to the crate's internal housing.

“...hurry up with the cryptographic handshake,” the scarred man snapped in broken English. “If Moretti’s automated audit flags this batch before the cargo transfer is complete, we’re dead men.”

“We’re already dead if you don't shut your mouth,” I called out, stepping out from behind a stack of steel drums into the pale overhead light.

The four men spun around in unison, their weapons snapping up with terrifying speed.

Pop-pop-pop!

The first volley of rounds chewed into the concrete floor inches from my boots, sending a shower of sharp sparks flying into the air. I dove behind a stack of wooden crates, returning fire with two calm, deliberate shots from my Sig Sauer.

One of the Odessa guards dropped instantly, clutching his thigh as he collapsed against a forklift.

“Flank them!” the scarred leader roared, diving behind the massive wooden crate.

Automatic gunfire erupted across the cavernous warehouse, echoing off the corrugated tin walls like thunder. Bullets splintered wood and shredded cardboard boxes, filling the air with a choking haze of dust and pulverized debris.

“Harper, get to the terminal console!” I shouted over the deafening racket, firing another suppressing round toward the catwalk stairs.

“I’m moving!” she yelled back.

Staying low, Harper sprinted across an open lane of concrete toward the raised metal office enclosure built into the side of the warehouse wall, where the primary shipping control terminal was housed.

A guard near the back exit spotted her and raised his assault rifle, tracking her movement.

Before he could pull the trigger, Frank stepped out from the shadows near the back bay doors, his submachine gun barking once in a muffled, controlled burst. The guard dropped silently to the floor, motionless.

I kept my weapon trained on the main crate, advancing step by step while the scarred leader tried to pin me down with blind fire.

“You’re too late, Moretti!” the scarred man shouted over the gunfire, laughing maniacally as he slammed his palm onto a red emergency button on his digital tablet. “The transfer is already routed to our offshore server! Your entire empire is compromised!”

From inside the raised office enclosure, Harper’s voice rang out sharp and triumphant over the warehouse intercom system:

“Not quite, Viktor.”

A sharp, high-pitched electronic tone echoed through the warehouse loudspeakers.

On the scarred man’s tablet, the glowing green transfer progress bar suddenly snapped to red, flashing the word TERMINATED in bold crimson letters before the screen went entirely black with a faint puff of acrid smoke.

The man’s face went pale with absolute horror. “No... impossible...”