Chapter 5 - The Floodgates Open
The roar of millions of gallons of freezing North Atlantic seawater rushing into Drydock Four sounded like an exploding freight train. Below us, the sea rushed through the massive iron sluice gates with terrifying, physics-defying speed, transforming the concrete basin into a churning, frothing whirlpool of grey foam and churning whitecaps. Viktor Rostov’s arrogant smirk vanished instantly. As the freezing tide surged over the concrete docks, his elite tactical mercenaries scattered in absolute panic, dropping their heavy steel-cutting charges and scrambling frantically for the higher rungs of the gantry ladders. The water slammed against the hull of the illegal Panamanian cargo ship with a deafening metallic boom, lifting the multi-thousand-ton vessel off its keel and slamming it violently against the reinforced concrete pylons. “You madman!” Rostov roared, his voice cracking with fury as he clung desperately to a rusted steel stanchion while freezing spray soaked his immaculate Italian wool coat. “You’re sinking your own ship!” I leaned over the observation railing, casually tapping the ash from my cigar into the wind below. “That ship isn’t mine, Rostov,” I called down, my voice easily carrying over the thunderous roar of the incoming tide. “And this isn't my first time dealing with foreign trash trying to trash my waterfront.” Camilla dropped to her knees on the damp metal grating, her manicured fingers clawing desperately at my trousers. “Christian! Make them stop! Please! He’ll kill us all—he has my family's contracts!” I looked down at her with absolute detachment. “Your family signed their own death warrant the moment they helped you desecrate my mother’s crypt to steal her sapphire ring.” Marcus stepped up, holding out a heavy, blood-red silk cloak lined with sable fur—retrieved exactly as I had ordered from the master suite’s private vault. I took it from his hands, shook out the rich fabric, and draped it gently over Camilla’s trembling shoulders, tying the golden tassels neatly beneath her chin. “Keep warm, my dear,” I whispered softly into her ear. “You have front-row seats to the finale.” Down on the lower gantry, Rostov finally hauled himself up the rusted iron ladder, his tactical gear dripping wet, his face twisted into an ugly snarl as he leveled a silenced pistol straight at my chest. “End of the line, Vance,” Rostov snarled, his finger tightening on the trigger. But before he could pull it, a deafening crack echoed across the shipyard.
