Chapter 10 - The Dry Docks of Pier 44
The wind howling off the dark, choppy waters of the harbor carried the distinct smell of salt, rotting timber, and industrial rust.
Pier 44 was a relic of the city’s industrial past—a massive, cavernous steel skeleton where skeletal ship hulls once sat waiting for repair. Now, it stood as a towering labyrinth of shadows, leaking roofs, and decaying catwalks.
Dante killed the engine of his Mercedes two blocks away and walked the remaining distance on foot, his heavy wool coat snapping in the freezing maritime gale. He carried no visible weapons, his hands pushed deep into his coat pockets, his posture radiating an absolute, chilling stillness.
As he approached the rusted double doors of the main dry dock building, the heavy iron bolt slid open with a loud, echoing screech from within.
A masked operative stepped out into the dim amber light spilling from overhead floodlamps, holding a submachine gun loosely at his side. He patted Dante down with rough, perfunctory efficiency, stripping him of his concealed Sig Sauer and tossing it onto a wooden crate.
“Inside,” the operative grunted, shoving Dante forward.
Dante stepped into the vast, freezing interior of the dry dock. The floor beneath his feet was damp concrete, scarred with oil stains and rusted tools.
In the center of the cavernous room sat Harper.
She was bound securely to an old metal chair, her head still bowed, unconscious or barely hanging on. Standing a few feet behind her was Marcus Vane, holding a sleek silver laptop in one hand and a glass of amber whiskey in the other. He took a slow sip, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph as Dante approached.
“You actually came,” Marcus chuckled, setting the whiskey glass down on a rusted oil drum. “I have to hand it to you, Dante. For a butcher, you’re surprisingly romantic about your office staff.”
Dante stopped ten feet away, his gaze shifting briefly to check Harper’s pulse through the heavy zip-ties biting into her wrists. She was breathing, shallow and weak, but alive.
“Let her go, Marcus,” Dante said, his voice cutting through the hollow acoustics of the warehouse. “You have your leverage. What’s your price?”
May you like
Marcus smiled, snapping the lid of the silver laptop open. A bright blue screen illuminated his sharp, aristocratic face.
“My price isn't money anymore, Dante,” Marcus whispered, stepping closer to Harper’s chair and resting the cold barrel of a pistol lightly against her temple. “My price is your entire empire, signed over to me stroke by stroke, starting with the password to your primary mainframe.”
