Chapter 7 - The Trap at Pier 42
At 1:00 a.m., heavy fog rolled across the dark Atlantic waters of Pier 42.
Dominic Moretti stood inside a heated shipping warehouse, surrounded by fifteen heavily armed mercenaries equipped with automatic rifles.
Dominic was sixty, a scarred, burly man who had built his empire on extortion and bloodshed. He sat on a wooden crate, smoking a heavy cigar while holding a glass of cognac.
“Is the boat ready?” Dominic asked his lieutenant.
“Yes, boss,” the lieutenant replied. “The shipment of illegal arms is loaded. We leave for Canada in twenty minutes.”
Suddenly, the warehouse doors were blown off their hinges!
EXPLOSION!
A flashbang grenade detonated in the center of the concrete room, blinding the mercenaries in a wall of white light and earsplitting sound!
Before the smoke could clear, thirty elite Valente soldiers poured through the shattered doors and high windows, their weapons equipped with tactical suppressors!
THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!
In less than forty-five seconds, Dominic’s mercenaries were disarmed and forced to their knees, their weapons kicking across the wet concrete floor.
Dominic dropped his glass of cognac, staring in horror as the heavy smoke parted.
Roman Valente walked out of the gloom, wearing his charcoal coat, holding a heavy tactical rifle rested against his shoulder.
“Dominic,” Roman said smoothly.
May you like
“Valente...” Dominic gasped, his hand shaking violently as he looked around at his defeated men. “You... you were supposed to be dead!”
“I was dead,” Roman replied, stopping five feet from him. “But my son needed a father, so I came back.”
