Chapter 8 - The Trap at the Docks and the Russian Cartel
Thursday night arrived with a thick, icy fog rolling off the lake. Pier 42 was a maze of towering rusted shipping containers and creaking cranes.
Khloe sat in the surveillance van parked three hundred yards away, headphones over her ears, monitoring the audio feeds from the microphones planted inside the main warehouse. Enzo, Frankie, and twelve of their most trusted men were positioned in the shadows, waiting for the signal.
At 11:55 PM, a convoy of black sedans pulled onto the pier. Don Marcone stepped out, accompanied by several heavily armed guards and a man with a thick Slavic accent—Nikolai Voronin, head of the Russian illicit arms syndicate.
Khloe listened intently as the voices crackled through the receiver.
“Where is the shipment?” Nikolai demanded in broken Italian.
“Sal promised the docks would be clear,” Marcone replied angrily. “Bianke’s men shouldn't be within five miles.”
Then Sal’s voice echoed through the channel: “Everything is handled, Antonio. The cameras are dead. The Bianke family is finished after tonight.”
Khloe pressed the direct radio link to Enzo’s earpiece. “Enzo, it’s not just a dock takeover. They have Voronin with them. They’re trading military-grade hardware inside Container 84. If the feds hit this place, it’s treason charges.”
“Understood,” Enzo’s voice came back, cold as ice. “Cut their power now.”
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Khloe tapped into the warehouse grid control on her laptop, hitting the override sequence. Instantly, all thirty industrial floodlights on Pier 42 shut off, plunging the docks into pitch-black darkness.
Gunfire ripped through the night like thunder.
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