Chapter 7 - Blood on the Docks
The rain had turned the concrete of the North End shipping docks into a slick, black mirror reflecting the amber glare of industrial sodium lights.
A dozen unmarked black containers sat stacked against the pier, surrounded by a maze of rusting cranes and shipping crates. The wind screamed off the Atlantic, carrying the heavy scent of salt, diesel, and impending violence.
Ronan Blackwood stepped out of his car alone.
He didn't bring an army of guards. He brought only his reputation and a suppressed SIG Sauer tucked beneath his coat.
“You walked right into it, Blackwood,” a voice echoed from the top of an elevated container gantry.
Viktor Vance—a brutal, old-school syndicate boss from South Boston whose family had feuded with the Blackwoods for decades—stepped out from the shadows. He held a lit cigar in one hand and a heavy automatic pistol in the other. Behind him, six armed mercenaries emerged from the crates, leveling their weapons at Ronan’s chest.
“Viktor,” Ronan said smoothly, his hands resting casually inside his coat pockets. “I thought you retired after your last warehouse in Dorchester burned down.”
“I don't retire, Ronan. I adapt,” Viktor sneered, taking a slow step down the metal staircase. “Arthur Hale gave us the security clearance codes to your primary shipping manifests. Without those ports, your entire empire bleeds out by midnight.”
Ronan didn't flinch. He didn't look back at the shadows behind him.
“Arthur Hale is currently facing twenty years in a federal penitentiary for wire fraud and perjury,” Ronan noted conversationally. “And you’re stupid enough to buy stolen data from a drowning man?”
“I’m smart enough to recognize a dying dynasty when I see one,” Viktor snarled, raising his pistol. “Kill him. Leave the body in the harbor.”
The mercenaries raised their barrels.
Before the first trigger could be pulled, the high-pitched whine of sniper lasers cut through the rain-slick air.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Three red dots appeared instantly on the chests of the three mercenaries standing to Viktor’s left.
From the shadows of the gantry cranes above, Marco and a dozen Blackwood elite operatives materialized like ghosts, their weapons locked and loaded.
“Drop your weapons,” Marco’s cold voice echoed across the docks.
Viktor’s face turned white with sudden, blind panic. He whipped his gun toward Ronan, screaming, “Shoot him anyway!”
He never got the chance.
Ronan moved with terrifying, blinding speed. In a fraction of a second, his hand cleared his coat, the suppressed pistol came up, and a single, muffled shot echoed across the harbor.
Viktor’s weapon clattered onto the wet concrete as a bullet pierced his shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the side of a steel container.
The remaining mercenaries dropped their rifles instantly, raising their hands into the air as Marco’s men swarmed the catwalks, disarming them in seconds.
Ronan walked slowly over to where Viktor was groaning against the container, pressing the cold muzzle of his gun right beneath the older man’s chin.
“Tell Arthur Hale,” Ronan whispered, his voice sounding like grinding ice, “that if his shadow ever falls across my estate again, I won't send the federal marshals. I’ll handle it myself.”
May you like
He stepped back, wiping a drop of rain from his cheek, and turned to Marco.
“Clean this up. Dump them at the municipal precinct. I’m going home.”
