Chapter 7 - The Gambit at Pier 44
The docks at Pier 44 were a maze of rusting shipping containers, towering cranes, and towering piles of imported lumber under the yellow glare of sodium-vapor lamps.
The black armored SUV slid silently into the shadows behind a stack of container boxes. Inside, Damian sat in the passenger seat checking the magazine of a heavy Sig Sauer pistol with mechanical efficiency.
“Elena, you stay in the vehicle,” Damian ordered without looking up.
“Like hell I do,” Elena replied, checking the safety of the compact pistol Victor had handed her ten minutes prior.
Damian snapped his head around, his gray eyes flashing with annoyance. “This isn't a physical therapy session. Rossi’s men are armed, desperate, and waiting for a bloodbath.”
“I didn't take five bullets—well, one bullet and a lot of shrapnel—to sit in a parked car like a potted plant,” Elena snapped back, her jaw set with a stubbornness that matched his own. “I know these docks. My uncle used to work here. I know every blind spot between warehouse C and the water.”
Damian stared at her for a long, silent second. Then, a low rumble of laughter escaped his chest—short, dark, and utterly devoid of humor.
“God help me, you’re out of your mind,” he muttered.
“Stay close to my six,” Elena retorted, pushing open her door and stepping out onto the wet asphalt.
They moved like ghosts through the maze of stacked steel boxes. The salty night air was thick with the smell of diesel fuel and rotting kelp. Ahead, warehouse C loomed large and dark, light spilling out beneath its rolling corrugated steel door.
Voices echoed from inside—harsh, arguing tones bouncing off the tin walls.
“Cole is too distracted by the old lady,” a gruff voice shouted—Vincent Rossi. “By tonight, the shipping lines are ours, and the board will vote him out by morning.”
Damian didn't wait to hear more. He signaled to Victor and the two elite security guards flanking them, then kicked the side service door of the warehouse inward with a deafening crash.
Chaos erupted in an instant.
“Federal—no, Cole!” someone screamed.
Gunfire lit up the dim interior of the warehouse, orange flashes strobing against towering stacks of wooden crates. Bullets chewed into the corrugated metal walls, sending a shower of sparks raining down onto the concrete floor.
Damian raised his pistol, two sharp cracks echoing above the din as two of Rossi’s enforcers dropped instantly behind a forklift.
“Flank left!” Damian roared over the gunfire.
Elena dropped low behind a steel pallet, her heart hammering against her ribs. She saw a shadow detach itself from the upper gantry walkway—one of Rossi’s men aiming a submachine gun directly at Damian’s back as he advanced through the crossfire.
“Damian, watch out!”
Elena raised her pistol with both hands, her breath held tight in her chest. She had never fired a live round at a human being in her life. Her hands shook violently.
Take a breath. Squeeze, don't pull.
She squeezed the trigger.
May you like
The recoil slammed into her shoulder, jarring her bad arm, but the shot found its mark. The man on the gantry cried out, dropping his weapon as he tumbled over the railing onto a stack of empty pallets below.
Damian spun around just in time to see the man hit the floor. His eyes swept the warehouse until they found Elena crouching behind the pallet. He didn't smile, but a fierce, possessive intensity burned in his eyes that told her everything she needed to know.
