Chapter 6 - Blood on the Water
The assault on the Siren lasted precisely forty-two seconds.
Roman’s security operators moved across the wet timber of Pier 42 like shadows given form. Silenced shots—thin, sharp pops that sounded like nothing more than plastic bottles snapping underfoot—echoed through the sound of the falling rain.
The two guards on the flybridge dropped before they even realized the perimeter had been breached. The four deckhands followed half a second later, their bodies sliding silently across the slick teak deck into the dark water of the East River.
Mara ignored Roman’s command to stay in the vehicle.
She stepped out of the SUV into the pouring rain, pulling her tactical jacket tightly around her shoulders, and followed ten yards behind Roman as he stepped onto the aft deck of the yacht.
The salon glass doors blew inward as Franco kicked the frame off its hydraulic hinges.
Inside, the air was warm, smelling of expensive cigars, single-malt scotch, and the faint, sweet chemical tang of industrial refrigerant.
Marco Moretti—a fifty-year-old man with thin silver hair, a dark leather jacket, and a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand—was sitting in a red leather armchair. He had a half-empty glass of Macallan in his hand and a heavy silver revolver lying on the glass coffee table beside him.
He didn't reach for the gun. He knew better.
Six laser sights—bright, crimson dots—were clustered over his chest, his throat, and the center of his forehead.
Standing in the corner behind him was a man in a white lab coat—a disgraced former transplant surgeon named Dr. Victor Vance, holding a silver medical case.
Roman walked into the salon, his wet shoes tracking dark water across the cream-colored carpet. He stopped three feet from Moretti, holding his matte-black pistol at his side.
“Marco,” Roman said quietly.
Moretti took a slow sip of his scotch, his hands remarkably steady for a man staring down six gun barrels.
“Roman,” Moretti replied, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “You’re early. I was expecting a phone call from the Westchester coroner first.”
Roman didn't react to the provocation. He looked past Moretti at the stainless-steel cold-chain box sitting against the rear bulkhead.
The digital temperature gauge on the box read: -21.5°C.
“Who bought the profile, Marco?” Roman asked.
Moretti chuckled—a dry, raspy sound that ended in a short cough. “You know how the world works, Roman. The Valente family has controlled the docks for forty years. You thought you were untouchable because you had judges in your pocket. But there are men above judges, Roman. Men in Geneva, men in London, men who have children with rare blood diseases who don't care how many seven-year-old mafia princesses have to die to get what they need.”
Mara stepped past Franco into the salon, her eyes fixing on Dr. Victor Vance.
“Vance,” Mara said, her voice ringing clear over the hum of the yacht’s generator.
The doctor flinched, looking at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Ellis? What... what are you doing here?”
“I know you,” Mara said, her voice filled with absolute disgust. “You were struck from the medical registry in Massachusetts four years ago for illegal tissue harvesting at Boston General.”
Moretti glanced at Mara, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “Ah. The maid. The nurse who ruined a twenty-million-dollar contract because she noticed a missing butterfly.”
He looked back at Roman, a mocking smile touching his lips.
“Shoot me, Roman,” Moretti sneered. “Go ahead. Put a bullet in my head. My associates already have the offshore wire transfers locked in escrow. Even if I die tonight, your brother is going to federal prison for treason, your sister-in-law is ruined, and every syndicate from here to Chicago knows your inner circle is weak enough to be bought for pocket change.”
Roman looked at Moretti for three long, agonizing seconds.
Then, slowly, Roman lowered his weapon and handed it to Franco.
“You’re right, Marco,” Roman said smoothly. “Shooting you is too clean. It creates a martyr for your crew.”
Roman turned his head toward Mara.
“Mara,” Roman said.
“Yes, Mr. Valente?”
“What happens to a man’s central nervous system if he is injected with a concentrated dose of his own cold-chain metabolic inhibitor?”
Mara looked at Dr. Vance’s open medical case on the table. Inside lay three pre-filled glass syringes containing concentrated paralytic agents designed to prepare a body for organ extraction.
“It induces complete motor paralysis within fifteen seconds,” Mara answered calmly. “The subject remains fully conscious, fully aware of their surroundings, but completely unable to move, speak, or blink. Without mechanical ventilation, laryngeal collapse occurs in six minutes.”
Moretti’s face finally lost its arrogant composure. His eyes widened in sudden, surging panic as he tried to leap up from the leather chair to grab the revolver on the table.
Franco caught him by the neck in less than a second, slamming him back down into the chair and pinning his arms behind his back.
May you like
Roman picked up one of the pre-filled glass syringes from the case, removed the plastic safety cap with his teeth, and handed it to Mara.
“He tried to put my daughter in a cold box, Mara,” Roman whispered. “Give him his medicine.”
