Chapter 7 – Fire on the Bayonne Docks
The Bayonne freight terminal sat rotting on the edge of Newark Bay, framed by rusting shipping containers, stagnant pools of water, and the low, industrial groan of overhead cranes.
At eleven o’clock sharp, four black, unmarked SUVs tore past the outer perimeter without braking, shattering the chain-link barrier like paper.
Before the watchtower guards could raise their rifles, suppressed shots cracked through the rain-drenched darkness. Four precise strikes from the perimeter snipers silenced the towers instantly.
Dominic Moretti stepped out of the lead vehicle wearing a tactical vest over a black turtleneck, holding an assault rifle comfortably in his gloved hands. Behind him, twenty of his top operatives deployed with military accuracy, sweeping the outer lot in seconds.
“Clear!” Marcus called out over the radio channel.
“Breach the main doors,” Dominic ordered smoothly.
Two operatives stepped up with a heavy hydraulic ram. With a thundering crash, the reinforced steel doors buckled and caved inward.
Inside, harsh halogen lights flickered against stacks of smuggled cargo and illegal contraband. Standing near the center of the concrete floor was Julian Romano—a thirty-year-old upstart in a tailored suit already ruined by the dampness of the warehouse.
A dozen hired mercenaries surrounded him, weapons trained on the main entrance.
“Dominic Moretti,” Julian scoffed nervously, his hands trembling as he leveled a pistol. “I wondered when the king would finally crawl out of his Westchester palace.”
Dominic walked steadily into the light, completely unbothered by the guns aimed at his chest. Behind him, his strike team fanned out into a lethal wall of black tactical gear.
“You sent an amateur to do a man’s work, Julian,” Dominic said, his voice slicing through the cold air like a blade. “And you used a poison meant for an eight-year-old.”
“It’s just business, Moretti!” Julian yelled, his voice rising in panic. “Your father stole my family’s docks! You pushed us off the Hudson! We were taking back what belonged to us!”
“My father constructed those docks with blood and grit,” Dominic replied, taking another deliberate step forward. “Your father tried to seize them through treason. And you… you committed the fatal error of involving my son in a blood feud.”
Julian raised his firearm, aiming directly for Dominic’s chest. “Drop him! Kill them all!”
Before Julian’s finger could press the trigger, a loud blast rattled the overhead rafters.
Marcus Vance had maneuvered along the upper catwalks. From twelve feet above, he dropped a smoke canister directly into the center of the enemy unit, instantly followed by a barrage of suppressive fire that tore into the concrete at the mercenaries’ feet.
Mass chaos exploded.
Muzzle flashes cut through the billowing smoke as the sharp stench of cordite filled the air. Dominic didn’t miss a beat. Raising his rifle, he fired with lethal precision. One after another, Julian’s guards dropped their weapons and collapsed, completely outmatched.
In under ninety seconds, the crossfire ceased.
Julian dropped his gun with a scream as a heavy tactical boot slammed down on his wrist, pinning him to the floor.
Dominic stood over him, the muzzle of his rifle resting lightly against Julian’s silk tie.
“Please,” Julian choked out, coughing blood onto the concrete. “Wait—my family—we can make a deal—we can share the Brooklyn terminals fifty-fifty—”
