Chapter 3 - Midnight at the DocksThe warehouse on 14th Street was an abandoned meatpacking facility that smelled of old rust, sea salt, and blood that had dried ten years ago. Rain leaked through the corrugated tin roof, dripping onto the rusted iron meat hooks that hung from overhead rails like bent fingers.
Frankie "The Hammer" Moretti sat on a wooden crate in the center of the main floor, flipping a heavy silver zippo lighter open and closed. Snap. Click. Snap. Click.
Around him, seven men in heavy leather jackets stood in the shadows, holding suppressed weapons.
"He ain't coming," one of the younger men muttered, checking the action on his Glock. "Gabriel Kane doesn't run errands for kids. He's probably already handed her over to the Irish or dumped her in the river himself."
"Shut up," Frankie growled, the flame from his lighter casting harsh, angular shadows across his broken nose. "Gabriel’s old school. He’s got that stupid Boston code about debts. I know for a fact he felt dirty about the Marsh hit. He paid off the cop’s mortgage through three shell companies two years ago. I tracked the wire myself."
The young guy snorted. "Paying a mortgage ain't the same as fighting Falcone."
Thud.
The sound was soft, almost lost beneath the drumming of the rain against the tin roof. It came from the loading bay entrance at the rear of the building.
Frankie froze. The lighter snapped shut. Darkness swallowed the center of the room again.
"Check it," Frankie ordered, motioning to two of his men.
The two men stepped forward, their tactical lights cutting narrow beams through the dusty, damp air. They walked toward the loading bay doors, their heavy boots crunching on broken glass.
They reached the corner of a stacked row of wooden pallets.
Crack. Crack.
Two muffled pops—no louder than a finger snapping—echoed through the warehouse. The beams of light spun wildly as both men collapsed to the concrete floor without making a sound.
"Ambush!" Frankie yelled, diving behind a steel meat-processing table as gunfire erupted from the darkness.
It wasn't a firefight. It was an execution.
Gabriel Kane moved through the shadows of the warehouse like a ghost built of cordite and silence. He didn't use a flashlight. He didn't shout commands. He moved with the terrifying efficiency of a man who had cleared rooms in Belfast and Grozny before he ever took over the Manhattan waterfront.
A shooter jumped out from behind a support beam; Gabriel caught his wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped through the leather jacket, and put a single 9mm round through his chest before the man could scream.
Another man tried to flank him from the left; Viktor’s heavy sniper rifle boomed from the high rafters above, tearing through the shooter's shoulder and driving him into the concrete.
In less than ninety seconds, five of Frankie’s men were dead or incapacitated on the wet floor.
Frankie scrambled backward, his boots slipping in the pool of rainwater near the office door. He pulled his revolver, wild-eyed, aiming blindly into the dark corners of the room.
"Gabriel!" Frankie screamed, his voice cracking with sudden, overwhelming panic. "It was just a message! Falcone just wanted the pier contracts! We weren't gonna hurt the kid! It was just leverage!"
A dark figure stepped out from behind a row of hanging meat hooks.
Gabriel Kane walked slowly into the faint yellow light of the single overhead bulb. His coat was dry. His face was entirely calm. His gun was held low at his side, pointed at the concrete floor.
"You took a picture of her, Frankie," Gabriel said softly.
"It was just a camera, man! Just a photo!"
"You put her in your mouth," Gabriel continued, taking another slow step forward. "You spoke her name to your boss. You made her part of the arithmetic."
"Gabriel, please—we worked together on the Queens line! I know your uncle!" Frankie was weeping now, his fingers slipping on the grip of his gun as he backed against the corrugated metal wall.
Gabriel didn't answer. He raised the Sig Sauer.
"Wait!" Frankie yelled, holding his hands up. "What about the girl? You think she’s gonna look at you like a father if she finds out you killed five men tonight for her?"
Gabriel stopped two feet away. He looked down at Frankie with eyes that held no anger, no hatred, and no mercy.
"She’s never going to know," Gabriel whispered.
Pop.
The shot was quiet. Frankie collapsed into a heap against the rusted wall.
Gabriel stood alone in the quiet warehouse for a long moment, listening to the rain drumming against the tin roof. He pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, wiped a single speck of blood from the slide of his firearm, and dropped the cloth onto Frankie’s chest.
Sal stepped out from the shadows near the loading dock, holding a tactical radio. "Building's clear, boss. Viktor's sweeping the perimeter. What do we tell Falcone?"
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Gabriel turned toward the exit, stepping over the brass casings on the floor.
"Tell Falcone that if I see another one of his men south of 59th Street before eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register that made Sal’s skin crawl, "I won't just take his piers. I'll burn his entire family out of Brooklyn."
