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

The storm over Boston had turned into a torrential downpour by eight o'clock.

At Pier 9 in East Boston, an old, rusted ship-repair warehouse stood surrounded by dark water.

Inside the sprawling, shadowy warehouse, ten armed mercenaries from the Moretti syndicate stood guard near the entrance, holding assault rifles. In the center of the room, tied to a wooden chair beneath a hanging lightbulb, was eight-year-old Noah.

Standing beside Noah, holding a silver revolver, was Frankie Moretti—a fat, greasy man with a leather jacket and an arrogant sneer.

"Is he coming?" Frankie barked at his lieutenant.

"He’s here," the lieutenant replied, looking at the security monitor. "A single black car just pulled up outside."

The heavy steel doors of the warehouse slid open with a screech of rusted iron.

Gabriel Ashford walked into the room alone.

He was wearing a black long coat, his hands visible at his sides, completely unbothered by the ten armed men pointing weapons at his chest. His dark hair was wet from the rain, and his eyes were hollowed out by a terrifying, murderous calm.

"Gabriel Ashford!" Frankie laughed, stepping forward, waving his revolver. "The great Devil of Beacon Hill! You actually came alone for a dirty little maid's brat!"

Gabriel stopped twenty feet from the chair where Noah was tied.

Noah was crying softly, his little face bruised from where a mercenary had grabbed him, but he looked up as Gabriel entered. "Gabriel!"

"Hey, buddy," Gabriel said softly to Noah, giving the boy a small, reassuring nod. "I told you nobody touches you under my watch. Remember?"

Noah stopped crying, nodding bravely. "I remember."

Gabriel turned his eyes back to Frankie Moretti.

"You made a fatal mistake tonight, Frankie," Gabriel said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

Frankie scoffed, pointing his revolver at Gabriel’s head. "A mistake? You're unarmed, Ashford! I have ten men with heavy tactical gear! You're the one who made a mistake coming here!"

"I came alone," Gabriel replied smoothly, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small black remote detonator. "Because I didn't want my men to mess up the floor."

Frankie’s eyes widened in sudden horror. "What is that?!"

"Ten pounds of C4 explosive," Gabriel answered, "placed on the structural steel pillars of this warehouse five minutes ago by my team while you were busy watching the front door."

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

A series of muffled explosions rocked the outer perimeter of the warehouse. The heavy steel support beams shattered, sending iron dust, concrete chunks, and sparks showering down from the ceiling.

"KILL HIM!" Frankie screamed in total panic.

Before the mercenaries could raise their rifles, the skylights above the warehouse exploded inward.

Glass rained down like a blizzard as six of Gabriel’s elite tactical team dropped down on steel ropes, opening fire mid-air with silenced weapons.

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

Five mercenaries dropped instantly before they even touched the trigger.

Gabriel moved like a phantom. He lunged forward, grabbing Frankie’s gun wrist, twisting it violently until the bone snapped with a sickening CRACK!

Frankie shrieked in agony, dropping the revolver.

Gabriel caught the falling gun in mid-air, spun Frankie around, and used him as a human shield as the remaining mercenaries opened fire. Bullets tore into Frankie’s back, his body jerking wildly as Gabriel held him upright.

Gabriel raised the revolver and fired three precise shots over Frankie’s shoulder.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The remaining three mercenaries fell dead onto the concrete floor.

The warehouse fell dead silent, except for the heavy rain beating against the shattered skylights.

Gabriel dropped Frankie’s lifeless body to the floor. He tucked the revolver into his belt, pulled a combat knife from his boot, and rushed over to Noah’s chair.

With two quick swipes, he sliced through the ropes binding the boy’s wrists and ankles.

"You okay, kiddo?" Gabriel asked gently, lifting Noah into his arms.