Chapter 7 - Fire on the Bayonne Docks
The Bayonne freight terminal sat rotting on the edge of Newark Bay, surrounded by rusted shipping containers, stagnant water, and the low, industrial hum of overhead cranes.
At 11:00 PM, four unmarked black SUVs rolled past the security gate without slowing down, crashing through the chain-link barrier as if it were paper.
Before the guards in the watchtower could raise their rifles, suppressed gunfire cracked through the rain-slicked night. Four precise shots from the perimeter snipers, and the watchtowers went dark.
Dominic Moretti stepped out of the lead vehicle, clad in a tactical vest over a black turtleneck, an automatic rifle held easily in his gloved hands. Behind him, twenty of his most elite enforcers fanned out with military precision, clearing the perimeter in seconds.
“Clear!” Marcus shouted over the radio headset.
“Push the main warehouse doors,” Dominic commanded.
Two enforcers stepped forward with a heavy hydraulic battering ram. With a deafening crash, the corrugated steel doors gave way, buckling inward under the force.
Inside, the warehouse was lit by flickering overhead halogen lamps. Stacked crates of smuggled electronics and contraband lined the walls. Standing in the center of the vast, open floor was Julian Romano—a slick, thirty-year-old punk in an expensive designer suit that was already ruined by the warehouse dampness.
Surrounding him were a dozen hired gunmen, their weapons drawn and pointed toward the entrance.
“Dominic Moretti,” Julian laughed nervously, though his hands shook as he raised a pistol. “I wondered when the king would finally crawl out of his Westchester hole.”
Dominic walked slowly into the light, ignoring the barrels pointed at his chest. His enforcers fanned out behind him, forming an impenetrable wall of black tactical gear and lethal intent.
“You sent a boy to do a man's job, Julian,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the damp air like a razor. “And you used a poison meant for a child.”
“Business is business, Moretti!” Julian shouted, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. “Your father took my father’s terminals! You squeezed us out of the Hudson! We just wanted what was ours!”
“My father built those terminals with blood and mortar,” Dominic said, taking another slow step forward. “Your father tried to steal them with treachery. And you… you made the fatal mistake of bringing my son into a blood feud.”
Julian raised his pistol, aiming right at Dominic’s chest. “Kill him! Kill them all!”
Before Julian’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a deafening roar echoed from the rafters above.
Marcus Vance had bypassed the upper catwalks. From twelve feet above, Marcus dropped a smoke grenade directly into the center of the enemy formation, followed immediately by a wall of suppressive fire that chewed up the concrete around the mercenaries' feet.
Chaos erupted.
Gunfire flashed in the darkness, the smell of cordite and burning sulfur choking the air. Dominic didn't flinch. He raised his rifle, firing with cold, lethal efficiency. One by one, Julian’s men dropped their weapons and hit the concrete, overwhelmed by sheer tactical superiority.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfight was over.
Julian Romano dropped his pistol as a heavy combat boot slammed down on his wrist, pinning him to the floor.
Dominic stood over him, the barrel of his rifle resting lightly against Julian’s expensive silk tie.
“Please,” Julian gasped, spitting blood onto the dusty floor. “Don't—my family—we can negotiate—we can split the Brooklyn shipping lanes fifty-fifty—”
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“Your family is finished, Julian,” Dominic said softly. He pressed the barrel down harder, cutting off the man's air. “There are no negotiations left. There is only the debt.”
A single muffled shot echoed through the empty warehouse, and the war for New York came to a permanent, unceremonious end.
