Chapter 7 - The Ambush at the Docks
Dawn broke over Lake Michigan like a bruised plum, spilling cold violet light across the concrete expanse of Pier 42.
The shipping containers were stacked four high, forming narrow, canyon-like alleys that smelled of dead fish, diesel exhaust, and salt water. This was the beating heart of the Rossi syndicate's logistical empire—the deep-water port through which millions of dollars in untaxed cargo moved every week.
And it was currently occupied by fifty men loyal to the Castiglione family.
Declan stood behind the reinforced door of an armored Cadillac Escalade parked two hundred yards back, checking the action of a tactical shotgun. Beside him, Nora was adjusting the strap of her plate carrier, her long dark hair pulled back into a tight braid.
"Silvio talked," Declan said, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. "The Castiglione boss, Marco, is here personally to oversee the unloading of the weapons shipment Silvio promised him. They think I'm dead. Silvio’s phone sent the confirmation text an hour ago."
"They'll have lookouts on the cranes," Nora said, pointing toward the towering steel gantries silhouetted against the morning sky. "Two snipers, minimum. If we roll in through the main gate, they’ll funnel us into a kill box."
Declan looked at her, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "What's the tactical recommendation, Mrs. Rossi?"
"We don't roll through the gate," she said, pulling a blueprint of the port authority from her tablet. "We use the stormwater drainage tunnels beneath the eastern bulkhead. We come up behind their command post, neutralize the snipers with suppressed fire, and take Marco before he realizes the ghost has come to collect."
Declan reached out, his gloved hand catching the nape of her neck, pulling her in for a brief, hard kiss that tasted of iron resolve and unspoken promises.
"Good," he murmured against her lips. "Let’s go take our city back."
Twenty minutes later, Nora was crawling out of the access hatch beneath Container Bay 7.
The air was freezing, mist rolling off the lake in heavy, gray sheets. She moved with absolute silence, staying low behind the corrugated steel walls. Her night-vision monocular scanned the catwalks above.
*Target one: forty yards out, thermal signature confirmed.*
She raised her suppressed rifle, aligning the reticle with the base of the sniper's skull.
*Pffft.*
The sentry collapsed onto the metal grating without a sound.
Behind her, Declan and six of his most trusted enforcers moved through the shadows like wraiths. There was no hesitation, no mercy. Every corner they rounded was cleared with the brutal efficiency of a syndicate protecting its throne.
They reached the central warehouse where Marco Castiglione was supervising the transfer of three dozen wooden crates marked with diplomatic seals.
Marco was a heavy-set man in a sheepskin coat, laughing loudly with two of his lieutenants while a forklift moved the crates toward waiting flatbed trucks.
"Silvio did well," Marco was saying, lighting a thick cigar. "The Iron King turned out to be made of tin. A little poison, a little commotion, and the entire Midwest is ours."
"You should have checked the pulse, Marco."
The voice cut through the cavernous warehouse like a scythe.
Marco froze, the lighter still trembling in his hand. He turned slowly toward the open bay doors.
Declan Rossi walked into the light.
He didn't take cover. He walked down the center aisle, shotgun resting across his forearm, his eyes burning with an ancient, unforgiving rage. Flanking him on the right, Nora Vale moved with deliberate, lethal grace, her rifle raised, clearing the perimeter with sweeping efficiency.
"Rossi?" Marco gasped, stepping back into the shadow of the forklift. "You're dead! Silvio said—"
"Silvio is currently at the bottom of the lake wearing twenty pounds of scrap iron," Declan said calmly. "And you're trespassing on my docks."
"Kill him!" Marco screamed, lunging for cover.
The warehouse erupted into violence.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the gloom as Castiglione’s men reached for their weapons. But Nora was already moving. She dropped to one knee behind a concrete stanchion, her rifle firing in rapid, controlled pairs.
*Double-tap. Double-tap.*
Two gunmen trying to flank Declan dropped before they could clear their holsters.
A third lunged from behind a stack of pallets, bringing an automatic shotgun toward Nora’s position. Declan didn't hesitate. He charged straight into the line of fire, firing his tactical shotgun with a deafening roar that tore through the pallets and sent the attacker crashing into the concrete floor.
"Nora! Cover the crane!" Declan roared, racking another shell.
Nora pivoted smoothly, her instincts screaming.
On the high catwalk above the forklift, a hidden gunman had lined up on Declan’s exposed back. Without time to aim her rifle, Nora drew the Kimber from her thigh holster and fired three shots through the steel staircase grating.
The bullets struck true. The gunman pitched forward, plunging thirty feet down, hitting the hood of Marco's SUV with a violent crunch of metal.
May you like
Silence fell over the warehouse once more, broken only by the hum of the idling forklift and the labored breathing of Marco Castiglione, who was crawling toward the water’s edge, his sheepskin coat torn and soaked in lake water.
***
