Chapter 14 - The Ambush at Pier 42
At 11:15 PM, rain lashed the rusty corrugated roofs of Pier 42. Fog rolled off the Atlantic, turning the rotting piers into a labyrinth of shadows and grease-stained water. Three black SUVs rolled silently into the alley behind the abandoned grain terminal, their engines purring on low RPM, headlights completely extinguished.
Vincent stepped out into the freezing downpour, pulling the hood of his tactical jacket over his head. Beside him, six operators from the Falcone Black Guard emerged like wraiths, their silenced rifles pointed toward the dilapidated warehouse entrance.
"Perimeter is quiet," Marco muttered through a bone-conduction earpiece. "Too quiet. No thermal signatures outside."
"Because they want us inside," Vincent responded, raising his hand to signal a split formation. "Marco, take three men to the catwalks. Angelo, keep the engine running and hold the extraction corridor. Shoot anything that doesn't wear the Falcone crest."
Vincent kicked the rusted service door open. The hinges screamed in protest, revealing a cavernous interior illuminated by a single flickering halogen bulb hanging fifty feet above the concrete floor.
Tied to a steel chair in the center of the warehouse was a solitary figure clad in a torn white silk dress—the exact dress Caterina had worn the night of her disappearance. Her head hung limp, long dark hair obscuring her face.
Vincent’s heart thudded against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He moved forward, his boots making no sound on the wet concrete, gun leveled at her center mass. Every instinct screamed trap, but the sight of her tore at the seams of his sanity.
"Caterina?" he called out, his voice hoarse against the drumming rain on the roof.
The woman didn't move.
Vincent reached her side. With the barrel of his Kimber, he carefully pushed the damp hair away from the woman's face.
A gasp tore from Marco's throat on the catwalk above.
It was not Caterina. It was a young woman, barely twenty, her throat slashed from ear to ear, cold and lifeless. Pinned to her chest with an antique silver dagger was an envelope with Vincent's name written in elegant, cursive handwriting.
Suddenly, the halogen bulb shattered with a crack. Complete darkness engulfed the room.
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"Ambush!" Marco’s voice roared through the comms just before the high-pitched shriek of automatic weapon fire ripped the silence apart.
***
