Chapter 8 - Fire and Vengeance
The interior of Pier 44 erupted into pandemonium.
As the power grid was remotely severed from the main breakers, the overhead sodium lights flickered and died, plunging the cavernous warehouse into pitch darkness, illuminated only by the frantic sweep of tactical flashlights and the brilliant, blinding muzzle flashes of automatic gunfire.
“Breach! Breach!” a voice screamed from the second-floor catwalks before a suppressed round cut it short.
Vincent moved through the ground floor like an avenging ghost. Bullets sparked off the concrete pillars around him, whining into the darkness, but he didn't flinch. His training was cold, precise, and lethal. Two Marcone enforcers rushed around a stack of wooden crates with shotguns raised; before they could level their barrels, Vincent fired twice—center mass, double-tap—and both men hit the floor without a sound.
“Clear!” Frankie’s voice barked over the encrypted comms channel. “First-floor security neutralized! Moving on the stairs!”
“Hold the perimeter,” Vincent ordered, stepping over a discarded weapon as he advanced toward the heavy oak door at the back of the warehouse—the office where Salvatore Marcone was hoarded like a rat in a corner.
The door was locked from the inside.
Vincent didn't bother knocking. He raised his boot and smashed it directly into the lock housing with an explosive kick. The wood splintered, and the door swung wide open.
Inside the office, the scene was a snapshot of pure, unadulterated panic.
Salvatore Marcone—a heavy-set, sweating man in a custom-tailored gray suit—stood behind a massive mahogany desk, frantically trying to clear the contents of a safe while two armed bodyguards leveled their submachine guns straight at the doorway.
“Hold your fire!” Marcone shrieked, his voice cracking with terror as he realized who was standing in the doorway.
The two bodyguards didn't get a chance to pull their triggers.
Vincent’s weapon flashed twice. Both bodyguards dropped their guns, clutching their shoulders and collapsing against the filing cabinets with muffled groans.
Vincent stepped into the office, his boots clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. He walked slowly toward the desk, the dark barrel of his pistol pointed dead at the center of Marcone’s chest.
Marcone fell back against the open safe, his face draining of all color, his hands trembling so violently he dropped a handful of cash onto the rug.
“Vinnie... Vinnie, wait!” Marcone stammered, raising his hands in a frantic gesture of surrender. “It was a mistake! We didn't know the accountant was connected to you! My men exceeded their orders—!”
“Your men broke into a home where a child was sleeping,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stopped three feet from the desk. “They beat a mother bloody on her own basement floor. And they interrupted a dinner I had been waiting six months to have.”
“I’ll pay!” Marcone sobbed, sliding down the side of the safe until he was kneeling on the floor. “Take the docks! Take the union contracts! Take everything I own—just don't kill me!”
Vincent looked down at him with an expression of profound, chilling disgust.
“You think this is about docks and unions, Sal?” Vincent asked quietly. He raised the pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against Marcone’s forehead. “You thought you could play the game in my city without understanding the rules.”
“Vinnie, please—!”
“Tell my date I’m sorry I was late,” Vincent whispered.
May you like
Bang.
The shot echoed off the warehouse walls, silencing the pier once and for all.
