Chapter 7 - Blood on the Harbor
The fog over the Boston Harbor was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
The cold salt wind whipped across the dark asphalt of Pier 4 as I slid the heavy black SUV to a halt behind a row of rusted shipping containers. The engine hummed quietly in the dark.
Ahead of me, through the swirling mist, I could see the high steel beams of the massive loading cranes towering two hundred feet above the water.
And just as I had feared, parked along the upper crane catwalks were four men in dark tactical gear, carrying high-powered sniper rifles pointed directly at the main entrance lane of the pier.
Below them, Roman’s convoy of dark SUVs was just pulling through the outer gates, completely unaware that they were driving directly into the crosshairs of a kill box.
My heart was beating so hard against my ribs I thought it might crack them.
I didn't have a weapon. I didn't have armor. All I had was a two-ton bulletproof vehicle, my knowledge of the docks, and the silver Duca crest heavy on my finger.
I looked at the main control box for the harbor's high-intensity floodlights sitting beside the access road fifty feet away.
If you can't outshoot them, blind them.
I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal.
The massive SUV roared to life, its heavy steel bumper smashing straight through the chain-link fence protecting the electrical junction box.
CRASH!
Sparks erupted into the foggy night sky like fireworks as the heavy steel grill of the SUV crushed the main circuit breakers.
Instantly, forty thousand watts of blinding, white stadium floodlights blasted across the entire container yard, illuminating the crane towers, the hidden sniper positions, and the thirty Irish mercenaries crouching behind the shipping crates.
A chorus of shocked curses echoed across the pier. The snipers on the catwalks covered their eyes in complete agony, their night-vision scopes instantly whited out by the blinding light.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” a voice shouted over the loudspeakers.
Down on the main access lane, Roman Duca didn't waste a single microsecond.
The moment the lights flared and exposed the ambush, Roman’s convoy screeched to a halt. Doors flew open, and thirty Duca enforcers poured out into the yard, opening a devastating barrage of gunfire into the exposed mercenary positions.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
I threw my SUV into reverse, spinning the wheel to shield myself behind a thick steel container as stray bullets pinged wildly off the reinforced bodywork.
Through the driver's side window, I saw Roman Duca himself step out of the lead vehicle.
He was holding a heavy shotgun, his dark face illuminated by the flashing muzzle light and the blinding floodlights above. He moved with cold, terrifying precision, cutting down three armed men who tried to charge his flank.
Then he saw my vehicle. He saw the crushed electrical box. And through the tinted glass, his dark eyes locked straight onto mine.
For a second, the chaos of the gunfight seemed to drop away. The sheer shock on Roman’s face was unmistakable—he had realized that the person who had just ruined an elite ambush and saved his entire army was the twenty-two-year-old waitress from Bellamore’s.
Suddenly, a heavy figure stumbled out from behind a nearby container, holding a smoking pistol.
Miles Vance.
Miles was bleeding from his arm, his suit ruined, his eyes crazed with desperate fury. He looked at my SUV, recognized me through the shattered windshield, and raised his weapon directly at my face.
“You ruined everything, you little bitch!” Miles screamed over the roar of the ocean wind.
Before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a shadow fell over him from behind.
Roman Duca appeared like a demon stepping out of the fog.
He grabbed Miles by the back of his neck, driving him face-first into the corrugated steel wall of the shipping container with a sickening THUD.
Miles dropped to his knees, his gun clattering onto the wet asphalt.
Roman didn't shoot him. He kicked the gun into the ocean, then reached down, grabbing Miles by his collar and yanking him up until his feet were dangling inches off the ground.
“I told you, Miles,” Roman whispered, his voice carrying over the sound of the crashing waves below the pier. “Touch anything that belongs to me, and I’ll tear your world apart.”
“Roman… please…” Miles choked out, tears mixing with the blood on his swollen face. “It was O’Connor… he threatened my family…”
“Your family is safe in Florida,” Roman stated coldly, his eyes dead of any mercy. “I checked on them an hour ago. You didn't do this for family, Miles. You did it for greed.”
Roman drew his sleek black pistol, pressing the cold barrel against Miles’s chest.
“Give my regards to the bottom of the bay,” Roman murmured softly.
May you like
BOOM.
The gunshot echoed across the dark water. Roman released his grip, and Miles Vance’s body collapsed silently into the dark, swirling ocean below Pier 4.
