THE MAID WAS HIDING BRUISES IN A MOB BOSS’S BATHROOM—THEN HE WALKED IN

The sea breeze off the Atlantic was bitter and cold as Gabriel’s motorcade pulled up to Warehouse 4 at the edge of Pier 17.

Three marked Roxbury police cruisers were parked crosswise in front of the warehouse's heavy steel doors, their red and blue lights flashing frantically against the gray fog. Eight police officers were standing near the doors, weapons drawn, shouting commands at Gabriel’s warehouse workers, who were standing with their hands raised against the corrugated wall.

Standing at the front of the cops, holding a heavy pump-action shotgun, was Detective Derek Lawson.

Derek was grinning like a maniac, enjoying the power rush of holding Gabriel Ashford’s men at gunpoint.

"I said open the damn doors!" Derek barked, pointing his shotgun at an elderly warehouse manager. "We have a signed warrant from the District Attorney! Open it or I’ll blow this lock off!"

SCREEECH!

Two black Suburbans and Gabriel’s armored Mercedes slid to a halt fifty feet away, blocking the entrance to the pier.

The doors flew open, and twelve of Gabriel’s elite tactical guards stepped out, dressed in black suits, carrying submachine guns lowered at their sides in a disciplined, terrifying formation.

Then, Gabriel Ashford stepped out of the rear seat of the Mercedes.

He didn't rush. He buttoned his charcoal suit jacket, adjusted his cuff links, and walked slowly toward the police line, his shoes echoing rhythmically against the wet asphalt.

The atmosphere on the pier instantly dropped ten degrees. The junior police officers visibly stiffened, their knuckles turning white on their gun grips as they realized who had just arrived.

"Lawson," Gabriel’s voice carried clearly over the sound of the crashing waves.

Derek turned around, his grin widening into a grotesque, arrogant sneer. "Ashford! I was wondering when the big mob boss would show up to defend his illegal stash!"

Gabriel stopped ten feet from the barrel of Derek’s shotgun. He didn't draw his weapon. He stood tall, his hands casually resting in his trouser pockets, looking down at Derek as if he were an annoying pest on his shoe.

"You brought eight cops to my pier, Lawson," Gabriel said smoothly. "You brought a fake warrant signed by Assistant DA Miller—a man who owes fifty thousand dollars to my sports betting books in Southie."

Derek’s grin faltered slightly. "It’s a legal warrant!"

"It’s a death warrant," Gabriel corrected softly. "For your career."

Gabriel raised his right hand and made a simple gesture with two fingers.

Behind the police cruisers, an unmarked black sedan pulled up. Out stepped Captain Vance from Precinct 12, accompanied by two internal affairs investigators in plain clothes.

Derek’s jaw dropped. "Captain? What the hell are you doing here?!"

Captain Vance walked up to Derek, his face pale and sweating despite the cold rain. He looked at Derek with absolute disgust.

"Hand over your badge and your service weapon, Lawson," Vance ordered, his voice shaking.

"What?!" Derek roared. "Are you out of your mind, Vance?! He’s a criminal! We have him cornered!"

"No, Lawson," Vance snapped, pulling a thick stack of legal documents from his coat. "Federal prosecutors just filed twenty-four felony counts against you ten minutes ago. Extortion, obstruction of justice, physical assault, running an illegal protection ring, and conspiracy to commit murder."

Derek froze, his eyes darting frantically between Vance and Gabriel. "That’s impossible! Who gave them that evidence?!"

"I did," Gabriel answered quietly.

Gabriel took two steps forward, closing the distance until he was standing face-to-face with the man who had hurt Harper.

"You thought Harper was weak because she was terrified of you," Gabriel whispered, his voice dark and lethal. "You thought she was alone. But she gave me every date, every location, and every bank account you used over three years. My team spent the last forty-eight hours handing those records to the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Derek’s breathing turned wild and ragged. He raised the shotgun, aiming it directly at Gabriel’s chest.

"I’ll kill you!" Derek screamed, his sanity snapping completely. "I’ll kill you right here!"

CLICK.

Twelve submachine guns cocked in unison behind Gabriel.

"Go ahead and pull the trigger, Lawson," Gabriel said, his dark eyes fixed on Derek’s trembling face without a single flicker of fear. "Shoot me in front of twelve witnesses, two IA investigators, and your captain. You’ll be dead before my body hits the ground."

Derek stood frozen in the rain. The shotgun heavy in his hands felt suddenly useless. He looked at the surrounding cops—his fellow officers were already stepping back, lowering their weapons, refusing to stand with him.

He was completely, utterly alone.

"Drop the weapon, Lawson!" the IA investigator barked, drawing his sidearm.

Derek lowered the shotgun, his hands shaking violently as he dropped it onto the wet pavement.

Two IA officers rushed forward, slamming Derek against the hood of a police cruiser, pulling his arms behind his back and snapping iron handcuffs around his wrists.

As Derek was pushed down against the cold metal, he raised his head, glaring at Gabriel with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Where is she?!" Derek spat, blood mixing with rain on his lip. "Where is Harper?!"