Chapter 9 - THE WAREHOUSE AT PIER 44
The ironworks foundry in Red Hook loomed against the stormy sky like a rusted skeleton. Rain cascaded off the corrugated metal roofs, mixing with decades of industrial soot to form black rivers across the broken concrete yard.
Inside the cavernous central bay, Elena was tied to a heavy steel pillar, a trail of blood dried along her temple. Beside her, huddled on a wooden crate, was Lucia, shivering in her wet pajamas, her tiny hands clutching her mother's limp fingers.
Marco paced before them, checking his gold Rolex under the flickering sodium lights. Three black SUVs were parked in a semi-circle, their headlights focused on the single entrance. Eight heavily armed mercenaries stood at the ready.
"Five minutes left," Marco muttered, turning to Elena, who was slowly blinking her eyes open. "Your boy Damiano isn't showing up at the pier. He’s probably setting up snipers at the docks right now like an idiot."
Elena looked up, her vision blurring, but her voice held steady. "He isn't at the pier, Marco. He knows you."
Marco sneered, pulling his customized silver revolver from his holster. "It doesn't matter where he is. Once I wire the port authority access codes to the Valentis, my helicopter lands on that roof, and this entire warehouse goes up in flames. You should have stayed dead, Elena."
He raised the revolver, aiming it directly at Elena’s forehead.
Lucia suddenly stood up on the crate, spreading her little arms wide in front of her mother. "Stop it! You’re a bad man! You don't have good manners!"
Marco looked down at the toddler, a cruel, mocking laugh bubbling in his chest. "Manners? Kid, in about ten seconds, manners won't—"
The heavy iron skylight fifty feet above them shattered in an explosion of glass and steel.
A flashbang grenade detonated in mid-air, casting blinding white light and a deafening 170-decibel crack through the warehouse. The mercenaries screamed, clutching their eyes and ears as disorientation swept through their ranks.
From the rafters above, a shadow dropped like an avenging angel.
Damiano landed on the hood of the center SUV, the impact caving the engine block inward. Before the first mercenary could raise his weapon, Damiano fired three continuous bursts from his dual pistols, dropping four targets in under two seconds.
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The gunfire was deafening, a symphony of vengeance echoing off the rusted iron walls. Damiano moved through the smoke with terrifying efficiency, an unstoppable force of nature tearing through Marco’s hired army.
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