Chapter 9 - PIER 42
The rain was coming down in sheets by the time our SUV slipped past the rusting iron gates of Pier 42.
The warehouse district was a forgotten wasteland of corrugated metal, rotting wooden pilings, and black water that slapped sluggishly against the concrete seawall.
Julian killed the headlights a hundred yards from the main building.
The rain hammered a deafening rhythm against the roof of the car.
Through the foged windshield, a single yellow work light illuminated the loading bay doors of Warehouse B.
That's where they are, Julian whispered, checking the safety on his rifle.
Marcus likes theatrical displays.
He wants us to walk into the trap.
Then we give him what he wants, I said, sliding the compact sidearm into the holster strapped to my thigh.
We parked behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.
The damp air smelled of diesel fuel, rotting kelp, and old salt.
We moved through the shadows like ghosts, boots silent on the wet asphalt.
Julian slipped past the side pedestrian door of Warehouse B with the fluid grace of a predator.
I followed step-for-step, my senses hyper-focused, every muscle coiled tight.
The interior of the warehouse was cavernous, dark, and freezing.
Rows of empty wooden crates stretched into the gloom like gravestones.
In the center of the concrete floor, under a single swinging overhead bulb, sat a metal folding chair.
Tied to it with heavy zip-ties was Clarissa.
Her white dress was stained with grease and mud.
Her platinum-blonde hair—what was left of it after Viktor's shears—was tangled across her face.
She was sobbing quietly, her shoulders shaking with every breath.
Standing behind her with his hands in his pockets was an older man with silver hair and cold, dead eyes.
Marcus Vance.
And looming beside him, gripping a heavy wrench, was Viktor with his jagged facial scar.
Well, well, Marcus called out into the echoing space.
I knew the scent of blood would bring the stray dog back.
Julian stepped out from behind a stack of crates into the circle of light.
His rifle was held low and level, aimed straight at Marcus's chest.
Let her go, Marcus, Julian said, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls.
She served her purpose.
Clarissa raised her head, her tear-streaked face twisting in horror as she saw me step out of the shadows behind Julian.
N-Nadia? she choked out.
What are you doing here? You're supposed to be scrubbing floors!
Shut up, Clarissa, Viktor growled, stepping forward and giving her shoulder a rough shove that rattled the metal chair.
Marcus laughed, a dry, grating sound.
Look at you, Julian, Marcus sneered, pacing slowly around the chair.
Throwing away an entire empire for a kitchen maid.
Did you really think I wouldn't find out about your little dossier?
The fire on Pell Street was twenty-four years ago, Marcus.
The statute of limitations on murder doesn't expire just because you bought the judges, Julian replied, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger guard.
And neither does my debt.
Marcus smiled, a cold, shark-like grin.
You can kill me, Julian.
You can shoot us both right now.
Marcus raised his hand and snapped his fingers twice.
From the shadows above us, along the rusted catwalks of the second-story gantry, half a dozen armed men stepped into view.
Laser sights flickered red against Julian's chest.
Against my chest.
May you like
Checkmate, nephew, Marcus whispered.
Drop the weapon, or the girl dies right here.
