Chapter 2 - The Approach to Pier 14
The black Mercedes slid through the rain-drenched shipping yards of the North District like a shark through dark water.
In the back seat, Vicki had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, her head resting against Marco’s broad shoulder while Nero the puppy snored softly inside her faded pink jacket. Calcio sat in the front passenger seat, staring out the windshield at the towering stacks of brightly colored cargo containers gleaming under the harsh amber floodlights of Pier 14.
"We've got the perimeter secured," Marco reported quietly, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while his eyes scanned the perimeter monitors built into the dashboard. "Vance's primary office is on the second floor of Warehouse 9. There are at least six armed guards stationed at the loading bay and two more at the exterior stairwell."
"Six men with pistols and a cheap security system," Calcio said dryly, checking the magazine of his suppressed Sig Sauer before sliding it smoothly into his shoulder holster. "Vance thinks he's running an empire. He's just running a graveyard."
"Do we want to take him alive, boss?" Stephano asked from the driver's seat, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Or are we sending a message?"
"We want the contract," Calcio said, his voice cold as winter ice. "And we want Vance to explain why he thought he could import unauthorized medical personnel into my district without paying the tax—both in currency and in respect."
The Mercedes pulled into the deep shadows behind Warehouse 9, cutting its headlights instantly. The rain had slowed to a miserable, icy drizzle, slicking the asphalt and coating the rusted iron stairwells in a treacherous sheen of water.
Calcio opened his door, stepping out into the cold night air. He adjusted the collar of his charcoal overcoat, motioning to the three tactical operatives who had arrived in the secondary vehicle behind them.
"Move in fast. Clean entry. No unnecessary noise," Calcio ordered in a sharp whisper. "Secure the ground floor first. Then we go upstairs."
As the operatives melted into the shadows like ghosts, Calcio paused for a fraction of a second, looking back toward the Mercedes where Vicki stirred in her sleep, her small fingers still tightly curled around the heavy silver Benevventi signet ring he had given her. A strange, unfamiliar warmth tugged at the edges of his chest—a feeling he had ruthlessly excised from his life years ago when he took the throne of the North District.
Business is business, he reminded himself harshly, turning away and drawing his weapon. Protection is an investment.
The side door of Warehouse 9 was unlocked—a sign of sloppy management that infuriated Calcio even more than open defiance. He slipped through the threshold into the cavernous, dim interior of the warehouse, where the heavy smell of diesel fuel, rotting cardboard, and salt water hung thick in the air.
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Upstairs, behind the reinforced glass windows of the second-floor office, a sliver of harsh fluorescent light cut across the darkness. A muffled voice shouted angrily, followed by the sound of a woman crying.
Calcio’s boots hit the metal steps of the interior staircase, silent and lethal.
