Chapter 10 - The Midnight Interrogation
We drove through the predawn fog toward the industrial wasteland of St. Jude’s
Pier.
The Lincoln moved like a wraith through the empty harbor roads.
Behind us trailed three black vans loaded with Adrian’s most loyal veterans.
Men who had served his father.
Men who fought for the Moretti code, not Julian’s greed.
The pier loomed ahead.
A rusting finger of concrete jutting half a mile out into the black waters of
the Upper Bay.
At the far end sat a massive, weathered cargo vessel: The Northern Star.
Floodlights illuminated the perimeter fence.
Men with submachine guns paced the perimeter catwalks.
Leo pulled the Lincoln into the shadow of an abandoned sugar refinery two
hundred yards away.
Adrian opened his tablet.
A thermal imaging scan of the pier flickered to life.
"Thirty-two targets on the dock," Leo noted, pointing to the glowing orange
silhouettes.
"Twelve more inside the main warehouse office."
"Sal is in the office," Adrian identified the central figure.
"What's the plan?" I asked, checking Danny’s pocketknife in my tactical vest
pocket.
Adrian looked at me.
"We don't breach the gate."
"The water?"
"The water," Adrian nodded.
He signaled the three vans behind us.
Twelve men in tactical wetsuits emerged from the rear doors, carrying silenced
submachine guns.
"Leo leads the assault team from the sea wall," Adrian explained.
"They cut the power grid at 4:45 AM."
"When the floodlights die, Sal’s men will panic."
"They'll consolidate inside the warehouse office to protect their boss."
"And that's when we walk through the front door."
"Just the two of us?" I asked, my pulse accelerating.
"Just the two of us," Adrian smiled faintly.
"They won't be looking at the front door."
"They'll be looking at the ocean."
At 4:44 AM, we moved along the shadow of the rusted cranes.
The wind off the Atlantic was freezing.
Salt spray stung my cheeks.
Adrian moved with predatory grace.
Silent.
Efficient.
At 4:45 AM precisely, every light on St. Jude’s Pier died.
A collective groan of heavy generators shutting down echoed across the water.
Darkness swallowed the pier.
Shouts of confusion erupted in Italian and rough English.
PFFT. PFFT. PFFT.
Silenced gunfire hissed from the water's edge.
Guards tumbled from the catwalks into the black waves below.
"Move," Adrian whispered, taking my wrist.
We sprinted across the open asphalt.
The night air burned in my lungs.
We reached the steel double doors of the warehouse office.
Adrian kicked the door lock with brutal, hydraulic force.
The frame splintered inward.
We stepped into the staging room.
Three guards turned around in shock, raising their weapons.
Adrian fired three shots in less than a second.
Three bodies hit the floor before their weapons could discharge.
We moved through the secondary corridor.
At the end of the hall, the heavy mahogany doors of Sal’s private office stood
wide open.
Inside, Sal Castiglione was frantically shoving stacks of hundred-dollar bills
and passports into a leather duffel bag.
He looked up.
He saw Adrian standing in the doorway.
And he saw me beside him.
Sal froze.
May you like
His leather bag fell to the floor, spilling thick stacks of cash across the
Persian rug.
