Chapter 5 - Blood on the Docks
The North River docks at midnight were a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and freezing wind whipping off the black water of the Hudson.
An abandoned industrial warehouse near Pier 42 glowed with harsh fluorescent light leaking through cracked dirty windows. Inside, Marcus Thorne—a tall, heavily scarred man with cold, dead eyes—sat at the center of a metal workbench, cleaning a gold-plated 1911 pistol while half a dozen armed thugs stood guard around the room.
The heavy metal bay doors of the warehouse did not open gently.
CRASH!
A reinforced tactical battering ram smashed the steel doors inward, sending them flying off their industrial tracks with a deafening screech of rending metal.
Before Thorne’s men could even raise their weapons, flash-bang grenades sailed through the opening, detonating with blinding white light and deafening concussive shockwaves.
“Federal raid! Move in!” Victor Reyes roared over the chaos, leading Adrian’s elite security force into the building like a dark wave.
Gunfire erupted instantly. Automatic weapons fire chewed through wooden crates, sending splinters flying in all directions. Adrian Cole stepped through the smoke like an executioner, his Sig Sauer barking twice with terrifying speed. Two of Thorne’s guards dropped instantly, their tactical vests soaked in crimson.
Thorne scrambled behind a massive forklift, shouting frantically at his remaining men. “Kill them! Kill them all! Don't let Cole leave this pier alive!”
From the shadows of the catwalk above, a figure dropped silently down behind Adrian, raising a silenced pistol toward the back of his head.
It was Mason Reed.
His face was bruised, his clothes disheveled, desperation etched into every line of his features. He had come to the docks to warn Thorne, or perhaps to earn back his favor by delivering Adrian’s head on a silver platter.
Before Mason could pull the trigger, a sharp crack echoed through the warehouse.
Mason gasped, dropping his weapon as a bullet pierced his right shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing hard onto the concrete floor.
Adrian slowly lowered his smoking pistol, turning around to look down at his former best friend. He hadn't even had to look back to know Mason was there. He had felt the betrayal coming the moment Mason stepped into the room.
“You really thought you could play both sides, Mason?” Adrian asked, his voice devoid of anger, filled only with a profound, chilling emptiness.
Mason clutched his bleeding shoulder, coughing up a streak of blood as he stared up at Adrian with wide, terrified eyes. “Adrian... I’m sorry... Thorne forced me... he had my family—”
“You didn't have a family to protect, Mason. You gambled them away years ago,” Adrian said coldly, turning away from him and walking toward the terrified syndicate boss hiding behind the forklift.
Marcus Thorne threw his hands up as Adrian’s shadow fell over him. “Cole! Wait! We can make a deal! I have connections in Europe—!”
“You have nothing,” Adrian said, pressing the barrel of his pistol squarely against Thorne’s forehead.
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CRACK.
The war for the East Coast ended in the cold silence of the warehouse floor.
