Chapter 7 - The Strike at Pier 14
By 11:30 PM, the storm over Lake Michigan had turned the waters around Navy Pier into a churning cauldron of black waves and ice spray.
Inside Warehouse 14, forty armed Vanzini mercenaries paced back and forth along the steel catwalks, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Heavy floodlights illuminated the center floor, where five shipping containers sat parked near the loading bays.
Mario Vanzini—a heavy-set man in his fifties wearing a fur-lined leather coat—sat in a folding chair near the main office, sipping cognac from a flask.
"Check the time," Vanzini growled to his lieutenant. "It's eleven-thirty. Has Moretti called back yet?"
"No, Boss," the lieutenant replied nervously, scanning the dark perimeter windows. "No sign of their convoy on the pier road either."
"He'll call," Vanzini sneered, spatting on the concrete floor. "Moretti is soft. He brought a street girl into his house because he's getting old. He won't risk his shipping contracts for an orphan—"
CRASH!
The heavy concrete floor in the center of the warehouse exploded upward in a shower of dust, steel rebar, and flying debris.
Before the dust could clear, twelve heavy tactical officers in black body armor poured out of the underground drainage tunnel, their suppressed submachine guns barking in rapid, lethal harmony.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Four catwalk guards collapsed forward over the railings before they could even raise their weapons.
"AMBUSH!" Vanzini screamed, scrambling backward behind a steel shipping container as glass windows shattered across the upper office.
Out of the dust of the collapsed floor stepped Dante Moretti.
He wore heavy tactical gear over his black suit, carrying a custom combat shotgun in his right hand. Beside him stood Marco, clearing the left flank with lightning-fast, military efficiency.
In less than three minutes, the forty mercenaries were either disarmed, wounded, or lying unconscious on the cold concrete floor.
The warehouse went dead silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of water from the breached drainage pipe.
Mario Vanzini crawled out from behind the shipping container, his hands raised high in the air, his face pale with absolute, paralyzing terror.
"Dante! Wait!" Vanzini shrieked, his voice cracking. "It was just business! A political maneuver! We can share the harbor routes! I'll pay for the broken floor!"
Dante slowly walked over, stopping two feet from where Vanzini knelt on the wet ground.
He didn't raise his weapon. He simply looked down at the older mob boss with obsidian eyes that contained no heat, no anger, and no mercy.
"You burned an honest man's home," Dante said softly, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "You left an eight-year-old girl and two infants to starve in a blizzard."
"I didn't know about the kids! I swear on my life, Dante!" Vanzini whimpered, tears streaming down his fat cheeks.
Dante reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a small, clean plastic bag, and tossed it onto the concrete in front of Vanzini.
Inside the plastic bag lay a single, dull, tarnished quarter.
Vanzini blinked, staring at the coin in utter confusion. "What... what is this?"
"That is the down payment on your empire, Mario," Dante whispered coldly.
May you like
Dante raised his weapon.
A single shot echoed out across the dark waters of Lake Michigan.
