Chapter 4 - The Russian’s Trap
The interior of the warehouse smelled of damp concrete, stale diesel exhaust, and old iron. Dust motes danced in the pale shafts of moonlight cutting through the shattered roof panels overhead. Calder moved with absolute, predatory silence, his boots making no sound against the gritty floor as he navigated a labyrinth of stacked shipping crates and rusted industrial machinery.
As he neared the center of the cavernous space, the sound of muffled sobbing reached his ears.
Calder froze behind a towering stack of timber. Ahead of him, beneath a single swinging work light, a woman was tied tightly to a wooden chair. Her dark hair was matted with sweat, her clothes torn, her head slumped forward in exhaustion.
Claire Henderson.
Standing a few feet away from her, leaning casually against a crate while smoking a fat Cuban cigar, was Viktor Petrov. He was a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his thick neck, wearing an expensive cashmere coat that looked absurdly out of place in the derelict warehouse.
"I was wondering when the great Calder Moretti would grace us with his presence," Petrov said smoothly, not even turning around, as if he had sensed Calder's footsteps in the draft. He took a slow drag of his cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of blue smoke into the chilly air. "You're getting predictable, Calder. A little girl walks into a bakery, and the king of New York comes running like a stray dog."
Calder stepped out from the shadows, his 1911 locked firmly on the center of Petrov’s chest.
"You stepped out of your territory, Viktor," Calder said, his voice cold enough to crack glass. "And you touched someone who doesn't belong in our game."
Petrov laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the metal rafters. He dropped his cigar, grinding it out beneath the heel of his Italian leather shoe. "Game? My dear Calder, this isn't a game. This is a hostile takeover. Your shipping lines are bloated, your family is soft, and the old ways are dead. I took the woman and her brat to send a message: New York belongs to the men who take what they want."
"Where are your men, Viktor?" Calder asked, his eyes scanning the dark catwalks overhead. "Or did you come here alone to die?"
Petrov’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Before he could answer, a sharp click echoed from the shadows behind Calder.
"He didn't come alone, Moretti," a voice hissed from the dark.
Calder didn't flinch. Two heavy-set Russian enforcers stepped out from behind a stack of crates to his left and right, their assault rifles leveled squarely at his back. Petrov smirked, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide.
May you like
"Drop the piece, Calder," Petrov commanded, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. "Or I let my boys turn your little rescue mission into an execution."
---
