Chapter 7 - The Trap at Pier 4
Night fell swiftly over the Chicago industrial district, casting long, eerie shadows across the wet asphalt of Pier 4. Massive rust-colored shipping containers were stacked three stories high along the edge of the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan, creating a labyrinth of narrow, dark alleys.
A single yellow spotlight flickered from the top of a wooden crane, casting a dim, sickly glow over a large black cargo truck parked near the water's edge.
Hiding in the shadows of an elevated steel catwalk fifty yards away stood Marcus Valenti—the ruthless thirty-five-year-old nephew of the Valenti syndicate head. He was dressed in a heavy leather jacket, flanked by fifteen heavily armed enforcers holding suppressed submachine guns.
Marcus checked his tactical watch, a cruel, arrogant smirk spreading across his face.
"The truck just arrived," Marcus whispered to his lieutenant beside him. "Moretti's men are weak tonight. Only two guards in the cab. The moment they open the back doors to unload the weapons shipment, we open fire and take the entire haul."
"What about Ronan Carter?" the lieutenant asked in a quiet tone. "He was supposed to meet us at the gate with the security codes."
"Forget Carter," Marcus sneered, adjusting his weapon. "The pathetic drunk probably passed out in a gutter somewhere. We don't need him. Move in!"
The fifteen armed men crept forward like shadows, fanning out across the wet concrete, surrounding the stationary black cargo truck from all sides.
Marcus stepped up to the rear doors of the truck, raising his weapon with a wicked grin. "Open it up!"
One of his men stepped forward and yanked the heavy iron latch, swinging the double doors wide open!
The interior of the truck was completely empty—save for a single, small wooden chair sitting in the center of the metal floor.
Sitting calmly on the chair, dressed in his immaculate all-black suit, holding a silver lighter to a dark cigar, was Vincent Moretti.
Marcus’s blood ran ice-cold in his veins. "What the—"
"Looking for something, Marcus?" Vincent asked smoothly, his low, velvet voice echoing out of the dark truck bed as the orange flame of his lighter illuminated his dark, handsome face.
Before Marcus could pull his trigger, blinding white floodlights snapped on from the tops of every surrounding shipping container, illuminating the entire pier in daylight brilliance!
From behind the steel containers, sixty heavily armed Moretti enforcers stepped into view, their laser sights painting bright red dots across the chests of every single Valenti gunman.
Standing at the head of the enforcers was Bodyguard 1, raising a heavy tactical rifle. "Drop your weapons! Now!"
The Valenti men froze in absolute, terror-stricken panic, realizing instantly that they had walked directly into a slaughterhouse.
Marcus dropped his submachine gun onto the wet pavement, his hands flying into the air as he fell to his knees, his face pale as a ghost. "Moretti... wait! It was a mistake! We were set up!"
Vincent stepped slowly out of the back of the truck, stepping down onto the wet asphalt. His polished black shoes made no sound as he walked up to the kneeling Marcus, his cold gray eyes looking down at him with dark disdain.
"You used a coward to spy on my home, Marcus," Vincent said softly, taking a slow drag from his cigar and blowing a ring of white smoke into the cold night air. "And you paid him to terrorize a woman who cleans my floors."
"I didn't know!" Marcus shrieked, weeping in fear. "I didn't know she belonged to you!"
Vincent reached into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a sleek black semi-automatic pistol with practiced, terrifying grace.
May you like
"She does now," Vincent whispered.
A single, suppressed gunshot echoed sharply over the dark waters of Lake Michigan, cutting through the cold night fog.
