Chapter 6 - The Betrayal at the Docks
The Hart Estate on the cliffside of New Bedford was a fortress of granite, iron, and bulletproof glass overlooking the stormy Atlantic Ocean.
Two weeks had passed since the night in the arena. The estate, which had once echoed with the cold, sterile silence of Julian’s solitary rule, had changed subtly.
In the sunlit courtyard, Cyrus was no longer kept in a steel cage. He walked freely across the manicured lawns, his sleek black coat gleaming in the coastal sun, his tail wagging whenever he heard the distinct click-clack of Maisie's white cane coming down the stone terrace. The broken spike collar had been replaced with a soft, padded leather harness that Maisie had custom-fitted herself.
In the second-floor study, Julian stood behind his mahogany desk, listening to a report from Marcus.
"The Moretti syndicate is moving their shipment to Pier 14 tonight," Marcus reported, pointing to a map laid flat on the desk. "They think you're still distracted by the internal feud with the Jersey captains. They don't know we’ve already bought off their dock master."
"Good," Julian murmured, swirling a glass of scotch. "We take the shipment at midnight. No survivors."
"There's a problem, boss," Marcus added hesitatingly. "Hector."
Julian's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
"He's been talking to Marco," Marcus said, dropping a stack of surveillance photographs onto the desk. "He was humiliated when the kid showed him up in the pit. He thinks you're growing soft because you let the Doyle kids stay in the guest house. He's planning to tip off Moretti about the Pier 14 raid."
Julian picked up one of the photos. It showed Hector sitting in a dark booth at a dockside tavern, accepting a thick manila envelope from a Moretti lieutenant.
"Hector served my father for twelve years," Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "He knows the layout of this estate better than anyone."
"What do you want to do?" Marcus asked.
Before Julian could answer, the heavy oak doors of the study creaked open. Cyrus trotted into the room, followed closely by Maisie, who was holding a small leather brush.
"Mr. Hart?" Maisie said, stopping at the threshold. "Your house smells like burnt wires today."
Julian frowned, setting his glass down. "Burnt wires?"
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"Behind the library wall," Maisie said, pointing her small finger unerringly toward the east wing of the manor. "A little box is clicking. Tick-tick-click. It’s been doing it for twenty minutes."
Marcus instantly drew his sidearm, his eyes widening in alarm. "A remote frequency detonator."
