Chapter 6 - The Ghost of Nicholas Harper
The rain began to fall in heavy, wind-driven sheets across the industrial waterfront of the Cooper River. Abandoned cranes stood like rusted iron skeletons against the midnight sky, their cables groaning in the gale. Pier 4 was a cavernous, two-hundred-foot brick warehouse that had belonged to the Harper family for more than fifty years. Tonight, its broken windows flickered with the erratic beams of high-powered tactical flashlights.
Three black SUVs were parked haphazardly outside the main loading bay, their engines idling. Inside, half a dozen armed men tore through filing cabinets, prying open floorboards with crowbars and smashing vintage office furniture to splinters.
Standing on the elevated catwalk above the warehouse floor was Dominic Russo. At fifty-eight, Russo was thick-necked, graying at the temples, and possessed the cold, unblinking eyes of an apex predator that had survived decades of gangland attrition. He chewed on an unlit cigar, barking orders down to his men.
""Hurry it up!"" Russo snarled, his voice carrying over the thunder rumbling outside. ""Whitmore swore the drive was in this office! Find it, burn it, and set the whole building on fire! We leave no paper trail connecting my name to those shipments!""
Suddenly, the massive sodium-vapor floodlights on the warehouse ceiling flickered twice and died, plunging the entire facility into pitch darkness.
""What the hell?"" one of the men below shouted, raising his rifle. ""Generator blew!""
""Stay frosty!"" Russo yelled from the catwalk, drawing a silver semi-automatic pistol from his leather jacket. ""Cover the doors!""
A sharp, metallic clatter echoed from the far eastern corner of the warehouse. One of Russo's men moved toward the sound, sweeping his flashlight beam across towering stacks of wooden shipping crates. Before he could call out, a dark figure materialized from the shadows behind him. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, a knee drove into his spine, and the enforcer was dragged silently into the darkness without firing a shot.
Thirty seconds later, another flashlight went out. Then another.
Panic began to infect the crew. ""They're inside! We got company!"" a shooter screamed, firing blindly into the darkness. The muzzle flashes illuminated the warehouse in violent strobes, revealing empty pallets and swirling dust.
A single shot rang out from the shadows. The shooter collapsed, clutching his shattered shoulder.
Matteo Bellucci stepped into the dim wash of ambient moonlight filtering through the skylights, his Colt .45 held steady in his right hand. Marco and four Bellucci operators flanked him, moving with the cold, practiced discipline of professional soldiers.
""Looking for this, Dominic?"" Matteo called out, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron roof.
Matteo held up a small, heavy titanium flash drive, its blue indicator light pulsing faintly.
Russo leaned over the railing of the catwalk, his teeth grinding against his cigar as he recognized his lifelong rival. ""Bellucci! I should have known you'd stick your nose into my business! You think you can walk into my town, ruin my deal, and walk away clean?""
""This was never your town, Dominic,"" Matteo said calmly, stepping forward across the bloodstained concrete floor. ""And Nicholas Harper was not your business partner. He was an honest man who discovered you were poisoning his supply chains. You had Whitmore murder him because he wouldn't bend the knee.""
Russo let out a harsh, mocking laugh that bounced off the steel rafters. ""Honest men end up six feet under, Matteo! Look around you! Harper is dead, his widow is broken, and Whitmore was an idiot who couldn't keep a five-year-old quiet! But you... you came here for what? Honor? You're a Bellucci! Your hands are as dirty as mine!""
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""My hands build an empire that lasts,"" Matteo replied coldly. ""Yours are covered in the blood of innocent families. That makes you a rabid dog, Dominic. And in Charleston, we put rabid dogs down.""
Russo’s eyes flared with rage. ""Kill him!"" he screamed.
