Chapter 6 - The Blood at Berth 14
The rain was sweeping across the Port of Los Angeles in heavy, horizontal sheets, turning the asphalt of Berth 14 into a slick, glistening mirror reflecting the harsh amber glow of the industrial sodium lights.
A dozen unmarked black SUVs rolled silently down the pier, cutting their headlights fifty yards before reaching the dilapidated corrugated-metal shipping warehouse that served as the Marseille syndicate’s local staging ground.
Elias Ferrante stepped out of the lead vehicle into the freezing downpour, wearing a heavy black wool overcoat, his collar turned up against the wind. Behind him, Marcus Vance and six elite enforcers stepped out in absolute silence, checking their weapons with practiced efficiency.
“Cut the power to the compound,” Elias ordered quietly.
A moment later, the blinding lights of the warehouse flickered once and died, plunging the entire dockside into deep, abyssal shadow.
“In,” Elias commanded.
They moved like a pack of wolves. Marcus blew the heavy side access door with a silent, shaped linear charge—pop—and the reinforced steel plate swung inward on rusted hinges.
Inside, the warehouse smelled of damp cardboard, engine oil, and stale cigarette smoke. Six syndicate operatives were gathered around a folding table illuminated by a single battery-powered lantern, reviewing blueprints of the Ferrante estate.
They never heard the entry.
Elias stepped out of the shadows behind the table, his suppressed pistol leveled at the center of the room.
“Looking for something?” Elias’s voice echoed through the cavernous space like the crack of a glacier.
The six operatives scrambled for their weapons, but they were trapped in a crossfire before their hands even touched their holsters. Marcus and the enforcers opened fire with suppressed precision—pfft, pfft, pfft—striking with surgical accuracy.
Within ten seconds, all six men were on the concrete floor, neutralized.
Elias walked slowly toward the folding table, looking down at the blueprints of his own home scattered among empty coffee cups and discarded shell casings. He picked up the lead operative’s encrypted satellite phone, which was currently blinking with an incoming transmission from Europe.
He answered it, pressing the device to his ear.
“Report,” a harsh, heavily accented voice barked from the speaker on the other end. “Is the Ferrante woman eliminated?”
Elias smiled in the darkness.
“She’s fine,” Elias said smoothly, his voice dripping with icy contempt. “In fact, she just finished changing my mother’s IV drip an hour ago.”
Silence stretched across the international line for three full seconds.
“Who is this?” the voice hissed.
“Elias Ferrante,” Elias replied softly. “And I’m calling to let you know that your three men left their equipment behind. If you want to collect their bodies, you’re going to have to come get them yourself. But fair warning... my night nurse doesn't like visitors after midnight.”
May you like
Elias disconnected the call, crushed the satellite phone beneath the heel of his Italian leather boot, and turned to Marcus.
“Burn the warehouse,” Elias ordered. “Let’s go home.”
