Chapter 4 - The Syndicate’s Blood Pact
The absolute silence that followed my command hung heavier than the steel girders overhead. Admiral Harrison blinked once, twice, trying to process the surreal demand while armed mercenaries swarmed the concrete far below. “A—a silk cloak, sir?” the Admiral stammered, his eyes darting frantically between my frozen expression and the armed figures securing the gantry base. “You heard me,” I replied, my voice dropping into that icy register that brooked no argument. “My future wife is shivering in the North Atlantic draft. I won't have her catching a chill before she watches her entire conspiracy burn to ash.” Camilla recoiled as if I had struck her across the face. Her amber earrings clicked violently against her jaw as she stared up at me in absolute horror. “You—you knew?” she choked out, her voice cracking under the weight of her realization. “You knew from the second we stepped out of the Maybach?” I didn't answer her directly. Instead, I turned my back on her and leaned casually against the reinforced glass railing, watching Viktor Rostov lead his tactical squad directly toward the base of our gantry tower. His men were carrying heavy steel-cutting charges and encrypted comms gear, moving with the arrogant swagger of men who believed they held all the winning cards. Marcus stepped closer, his voice low and urgent. “Boss, the inner security detail at Gate Two reports that the local harbor police have been completely jammed. Communications are dead across the entire eastern seaboard.” “Let them jam whatever they want,” I said smoothly, pulling a leather-wrapped cigar from my inner pocket and biting off the end. “Rostov wants to play a high-stakes game in my shipyard? Let’s see how well his syndicate swims when the tide comes in.” Down below, Rostov reached the base of the gantry stairs. He didn't climb them immediately. Instead, he stopped under the floodlights, tossed his cigarette onto the wet concrete, and shouted up through a megaphone. The mechanical screech of the shipyard echoed his amplified voice across the harbor: “Vance! The game is over! Open the eastern vault doors, hand over the maritime shipping codes, and I might let your little fiancée walk away with her life!” Camilla shrieked, throwing her hands over her face as the mercenaries below raised their assault rifles toward our observation platform. I didn't flinch. I struck a wooden match, the sulfur flare illuminating the grim angles of my face in the dark. I puffed slowly until the cigar caught, blowing a thick ring of grey smoke out into the freezing wind. “Marcus,” I murmured without looking back. “Is the floodgate override primed?” “Ready on your mark, boss,” Marcus grinned, his hand hovering over a heavy red rocker switch mounted inside the control console box. “Good,” I said, turning my gaze back down to Rostov, who was impatiently tapping his watch. “Tell the boys in the pump room to open the main locks and flood Drydock Four. Let’s welcome our Russian guests with a proper baptism.”
