Chapter 9 - The Fall of Warehouse 7
The reinforced steel doors of Warehouse 7 didn't just open—they were blown off their hinges with a localized explosive charge that rattled the windows for three blocks.
Before the smoke had even begun to clear, chaos erupted inside.
The Corsini capos, sitting around a makeshift command table covered in smuggled weapons crates, scrambled for their firearms. But they were already dead men.
Gunfire crackled through the cavernous space—short, controlled, suppressive bursts that systematically dismantled the opposition. Men fell behind stacked crates, shouting panicked orders that were swallowed by the roar of combat.
And then came the deep, terrifying roar that the underground world had feared for a decade.
Phantom broke through the smoke like a living battering ram. He didn't need to be told twice. He cleared a six-foot stack of wooden pallets in a single bound, landing squarely on the chest of a gunman trying to raise an assault rifle toward Holden.
The man screamed once before the massive jaws clamped down on the weapon's barrel, shattering the steel as if it were glass.
Holden advanced through the center of the warehouse like an avenging angel, his pistol flashing in the strobing light of emergency strobes. He stepped over discarded casings, his eyes locked on the back office where the remaining Corsini leadership had retreated.
With a swift kick, Holden splintered the office door off its frame.
Inside cowered Marco Corsini—Victor’s younger brother and the new self-appointed head of the faction. He held a shaking revolver aimed at the doorway.
"Cross!" Marco shrieked, his face pale with mortal terror. "You can't do this! The Commission will—"
Holden didn't let him finish the sentence. A single, perfectly placed round shattered Marco's wrist, sending the revolver spinning across the linoleum.
Holden stepped into the office, grabbing Marco by the collar of his expensive silk shirt and lifting him off his feet until his toes barely grazed the floor.
"There is no Commission anymore, Marco," Holden whispered, his voice colder than the winter wind outside. "There is only me. And you are standing on my docks."
"Please..." Marco whimpered, blood dripping from his shattered wrist. "We have money... properties... anything you want—"
"I don't want your money," Holden said, his eyes burning with the cold fire of a vendetta finally fulfilled. "I want you to deliver a message to every remaining rat hiding in the shadows of this city."
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Holden threw Marco violently back against the desk, sending monitors and papers crashing to the floor.
"Tell them that the Cross family has returned," Holden said, turning his back as Marcus and his men swarmed into the office to secure the prisoners. "And anyone who touches a hair on my family... feeds the dog."
