Chapter 4 - The Trap
The trap was set for midnight at the old shipping yards by the harbor—the very place where Vincent had cemented his control over the city a decade ago.
An anonymous tip had been leaked to Marcus Vance indicating that Vincent had left the safehouse unguarded to secure a multi-million-dollar contraband shipment arriving via freighter. In reality, the docks were crawling with Vincent's most trusted loyalists, and Claire was safely hidden in the reinforced command center overlooking the piers, monitoring the feeds on a wall of high-definition monitors.
Rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of the warehouse as a single black sedan pulled up near Crane 4.
Marcus Vance stepped out of the vehicle, flanked by four armed mercenaries from the rival Moretti syndicate. He held a secure satellite phone to his ear, speaking in low, urgent tones.
Vincent stepped out from the shadows beneath the crane, his hands resting casually in the pockets of his dark woolen coat.
"You're out late, Marcus," Vincent's voice echoed across the empty concrete expanse.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. For a second, color drained from his face, but he quickly recovered, flashing a cold, predatory smile as his guards raised their weapons.
"Vincent," Marcus said smoothly. "I must admit, I didn't expect you to show up alone. Though, I suppose poetic justice demands it. For years, you've treated this city like your personal kingdom. But empires always fall from the inside."
"You skimmed three million from the pension funds," Vincent said, stepping closer. "You sold our shipping routes to the Morettis. And you tried to use my wife and unborn child as leverage."
"Your wife was a liability the moment she walked out on you," Marcus spat back, gesturing to his men. "And now, neither of you will leave these docks alive. Drop your weapon, Vincent. It's over."
Vincent didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled out his own phone and tapped the screen twice.
Across the yard, the overhead floodlights suddenly flared to life, turning the dark docks into broad daylight. From every container stack, catwalk, and shadow, dozens of red laser sights clicked on, painting Marcus and his mercenaries dead center.
Frank Calder stepped out onto the upper gantry, a rifle resting casually across his shoulder. "Wrong move, Marcus."
Marcus's face twisted in sheer panic. He reached frantically for his holster, but before his fingers could wrap around the grip, a single gunshot echoed through the rain.
May you like
Marcus dropped to his knees, clutching his shoulder as his weapon clattered uselessly onto the wet concrete.
Vincent walked slowly toward him, standing over his former friend with an expression of absolute, glacial detachment. "You forgot one fundamental rule about my organization, Marcus," Vincent whispered. "Loyalty isn't bought with a paycheck. It's earned through blood."
