Chapter 8 - The Strike at Midnight
The container yards at Port Aurelia docks were a maze of towering steel boxes, rusted cranes, and flickering overhead sodium lights that cast long, distorted shadows across the wet asphalt.
The Corsini syndicate had converted Warehouse 7 into their primary operational hub. Armed patrols walked the perimeter every three minutes, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, their breath pluming in the midnight chill.
They didn't hear the black SUVs roll in.
They didn't see the silent, dark-clad figures disembark and melt into the maze of stacked shipping containers.
Holden Cross moved with the lethal grace of a predator in its natural habitat. Clad in tactical black, his face darkened with camouflage paint, he led his strike team with absolute, ruthless efficiency. Behind him, moving like a phantom among shadows, was his most trusted enforcer—and beside Holden himself, on a reinforced tactical leash held by a handler, was the beast.
Phantom wasn't deployed inside the estate tonight. Tonight, the hound of the Cross family was going to hunt.
"Breach in ten seconds," Marcus whispered over the encrypted comms.
May you like
Holden checked his watch. 11:59 PM.
"Do not leave survivors," Holden murmured into his mic. "Send a message."
