Chapter 3 - THE GHOST OF MARLOW STREET
The safehouse beneath the ferry terminal was just the antechamber. By 3:00 AM, Maren had led Dominic and the dog—whom she casually referred to as General—through a labyrinth of subterranean maintenance tunnels that bypassed half the city's police district.
Dominic’s ribs burned with every breath, but the shock had worn off, replaced by the cold, calcified fury of a man betrayed by his own blood. Ronan hadn’t just tried to kill him; Ronan had built an empire on a throne of lies, stealing Dominic's life's work while playing the loyal lieutenant.
"Where are we heading?" Dominic asked, crouching behind a concrete pillar as a city maintenance truck rumbled overhead through the grates.
"The old dry docks," Maren whispered back, her face illuminated by the green glow of a tactical watch she had somehow acquired. "Ronan is hosting a sit-down with the North Harbor syndicates tonight to finalize the takeover of your shipping lanes. He thinks you're bleeding out in an alley on Marlow Street. He’s celebrating."
"And you expect us to walk into a room full of sixty armed capos with a scarred mutt and a rusty submachine gun?" Dominic raised an eyebrow, a grim smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"No," Maren said, pulling a heavy canvas bag from a hidden wall recess and unzipping it to reveal three bricks of C4 and a detonator. "We’re going to blow up their front door first."
Dominic stared at the child. She wasn't just Thomas’s daughter; she was a ghost forged in the furnace of his absence, raised by the city's underbelly to settle an account written in blood.
"General," Maren hissed softly.
May you like
The large dog immediately slinked forward, sniffing the air near a heavy iron bulkhead door that led directly into the subterranean levels of the dry docks. The hair along the dog's spine stood straight up. It wasn't the smell of damp concrete or rust.
It was the unmistakable scent of gun oil and cordite. They weren't sneaking up on Ronan anymore. Ronan was already waiting for them.
