Chapter 10 - The Unfinished War
The sharp reports of my 9mm echoed like thunder through the hollow metal warehouse.
The first round struck the concrete inches from Richard’s boot, sending a shower of gray dust into the air. The second caught the barrel of his hunting rifle, shearing the steel frame with a violent metallic screech that wrenched the weapon right out of his hands.
Richard staggered backward, clutching his bruised, smoking hands with a snarl of fury, before tripping over a wooden pallet and crashing hard onto his back.
In three rapid strides, I closed the distance, kicked the remaining debris away from him, and jammed the cold barrel of my pistol directly beneath his chin.
“Don't move,” I whispered, the words vibrating with a lethal, suppressed rage. “Or the next one goes through your skull.”
Richard stared up at me, his chest heaving, his face slick with cold sweat. He knew he was beaten.
Behind us, Diana was sobbing hysterically, clutching her bleeding shoulder where the graze wound had torn through her skin.
I ignored her, turned around, and rushed to Evan’s side. I pulled my tactical knife from my belt and sliced through the heavy tape sealing his mouth, then cut the zip-ties binding his wrists to the metal chair.
Evan slumped forward into my arms, gasping and sobbing as he buried his face in my coat.
“You’re safe, Evan,” I murmured, holding him steady. “It’s over. We’re going home.”
I looked back up toward the entrance of the warehouse.
Flashing blue and red lights were suddenly painting the corrugated iron walls of Pier 42 in a frantic rhythm, followed by the heavy, authoritative slam of multiple police cruisers pulling up outside.
Grant Mercer strode through the sliding door first, his Sig Sauer drawn, followed by a full tactical unit of federal marshals and local officers.
Grant took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance—Richard pinned on the floor, Diana bleeding near the pallets, and Evan safe in my arms.
“Took you long enough to find me, Grant,” I said, hoisting Evan up onto his feet.
“Got caught in traffic on the West Side Highway, Boss,” Grant replied deadpan, holstering his weapon and signaling the medics forward. “Looks like you handled the reception committee just fine.”
I handed Evan over to two arriving paramedics, who wrapped a warm thermal blanket around his shoulders and led him toward the waiting ambulance outside.
Then I walked back over to where Richard Sterling was being hauled to his feet by two federal marshals in heavy tactical vests.
Richard glared at me with pure, unadulterated venom as the plastic cuffs were snapped around his wrists.
“You think this is the end, Marcus?” Richard spat, blood trickling from a scratch on his cheek. “Vantage Logistics is just a front. The syndicate has bigger plans for your family. You haven't won anything.”
May you like
“Maybe not,” I said, watching as they shoved him into the back of a waiting transport van. “But you’re going to spend the rest of your life watching it happen from a federal penitentiary.”
I turned around and walked out of the warehouse into the cold, clean rain, leaving the shadows behind me as the first pale gray streaks of dawn began to break over the Hudson River.
