Chapter 6 - The Shadow on the Docks
The northern piers were shrouded in a thick, sulfurous Atlantic fog.
Four black crane trucks sat near the edge of Pier 14, their diesel engines idling with a low, rhythmic growl. Men in dark tactical raincoats moved through the fog, carrying heavy wooden crates out of a docked cargo ship bearing a Panamanian flag.
Standing near the edge of the pier, smoking a cigar under a yellow floodlight, was Don Salvatore Moretti.
He was sixty years old, thick-necked, with eyes like a killer shark and a silver-tipped cane resting against his leather boot.
"Is the shipment secure?" Moretti grunted to his lieutenant, a scarred hitman named Vance.
"Third container is loaded, Boss," Vance replied, checking his gold watch. "Callahan should have been here twenty minutes ago with the signed dock transfer deeds. He’s late."
"Callahan is a nervous dog," Moretti sneered, spitting his cigar stub into the dark water below. "He probably had to take another drink to build up the nerve to steal his boss's land. Once he signs those deeds, eliminate him. We don't need a traitor in our payroll."
"Understood, Boss."
Suddenly, the massive yellow floodlights illuminating the pier flickered... once... twice... and exploded in a shower of sparks.
POP! POP! POP!
Plunged into absolute blackness, the fog swallowed the docks whole.
"What the hell?!" Vance shouted, reaching for his weapon. "Perimeter! Check the generators!"
From the darkness of the cargo containers, a cold, smooth voice echoed through the foggy air.
"The generators are fine, Salvatore," I said.
A spotlight mounted on my armored SUV snapped on forty yards away, blinding Moretti and his ten hitmen in a cone of piercing white light.
Standing in the center of the beam were twelve of my most ruthless enforcers, armed with assault rifles. At the front stood I, wearing a long black coat, a heavy shotgun held comfortably against my hip.
Moretti’s jaw dropped. The cigar ash fell onto his coat.
"Vance..." Moretti gasped, taking a panicked step backward toward the ship. "You... you were supposed to be dead! Callahan said you blew yourself up in a depression binge!"
"Callahan lied to a lot of people," I said, walking slowly forward, my boots echoing against the wet wooden planks of the pier. "He lied to me. He lied to you. And he gave my wife to your men."
Moretti’s hitmen raised their weapons, but my men were faster.
RAT-AT-AT-AT-AT!
A brief, violent burst of gunfire tore through the wet air. Four of Moretti’s guards dropped instantly into the cold harbor water below, their weapons clattering against the deck. The rest threw their hands into the air, dropping their rifles onto the wood.
Vance tried to raise a pistol.
BOOM!
My shotgun roared. Vance was lifted off his feet, crashing backward against a shipping container, dead before he hit the ground.
Moretti stood alone under the spotlight, his silver-tipped cane trembling violently against the wet wood.
"Leo... listen to me!" Moretti whimpered, raising his liver-spotted hands. "It was Callahan’s idea! He came to us six months ago! He told us you were going soft! He said he had a way to remove Clara without a war!"
"And you took her," I growled, stopping three feet from him, the hot barrel of my gun pointing directly at his chest.
"We just kept her locked up!" Moretti cried. "We didn't hurt her! We were going to ship her to Sicily after the baby was born! I swear on my mother’s grave, Leo! I didn't want blood!"
"You put my wife in a cage, Salvatore," I said, my voice dropping into an ice-cold whisper that cut cleaner than a blade. "And you made her forget my name."
"Leo! Please! I’ll give you the piers! I’ll pay fifty million—"
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BOOM.
The sound of the shot echoed across the dark water, swallowed instantly by the heavy ocean fog.
