Chapter 6 - Blood on the Docks
The wind coming off Lake Michigan at 2:00 AM carried the biting chill of late autumn, smelling of brine, rust, and old decay.
Pier 42 was abandoned on paper, a decommissioned industrial dock owned by a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands—a company I traced back to Viktor Vance’s primary offshore portfolio within five minutes of checking the registry.
My Maybach killed its headlights a hundred yards away, rolling silently onto the gravel lot.
Marco and four tactical operatives spilled out of the trailing SUV, weapons holstered but hands ready, moving with military precision. I stepped out behind them, my long wool coat snapping in the harsh lake wind.
“Clear?” I asked quietly.
“Sector A and B are secure,” Marco murmured into his comms. “Thermal imaging shows two heat signatures inside warehouse number three.”
We approached the rusted corrugated iron doors of warehouse three. A single dim yellow light burned above the side entrance, casting long, jittery shadows across the pavement.
I didn't bother knocking.
With a sharp gesture, Marco signaled the lead operative. A heavy boot slammed into the lock mechanism, and the steel door flew inward with a deafening crash that echoed off the concrete walls.
“Federal property! Stay where you—!” Marco began, but I raised my hand, cutting him off.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse, surrounded by stacks of empty shipping crates and industrial machinery, two figures spun around in shock.
Claire Sterling dropped a cardboard box of forged passports onto the concrete floor, her mouth opening in a silent scream.
And beside her, standing tall with a cold, mocking smirk on his scarred face, was Viktor Vance.
“Well, well, well,” Viktor drawled, casually tossing a silver lighter between his fingers as if we were meeting for a casual drink at a country club. “I always wondered how long it would take the great Ryker Steel to connect the dots. Took you a bit longer than I expected, old man.”
I walked slowly into the light, my hands sliding into my coat pockets. The cold fury inside me wasn't wild or chaotic; it was surgical, precise, and absolute.
“You should have stayed dead, Viktor,” I said softly, my voice cutting through the hollow acoustics of the warehouse. “Munich was a generous grave. You ruined it by coming back for seconds.”
Viktor chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. “Stay dead? And miss the grand finale? Arthur was weak. He cared about family, he cared about ethics, and he certainly cared about those two brats. But you, Ryker? You took them in. You made yourself vulnerable. And in our world, vulnerability is a death sentence.”
He reached behind his back, his hand sliding smoothly beneath his trench coat toward the handle of a suppressed pistol.
“You think you won because you have custody of the twins?” Viktor sneered, his fingers wrapping around the grip. “Think again. While you were playing daddy up in your glass castle, my associates in Eastern Europe already have a contingency plan in motion. Those kids—!”
Bang.
The shot didn't come from Viktor.
Before his gun could even clear leather, Marco’s suppressed firearm barked once. A heavy thud echoed as Viktor’s right knee buckled beneath him, a neat, bloodless-at-first bullet hole shattering his kneecap.
Viktor screamed, crashing hard onto the concrete floor, clutching his shattered leg as blood began to pool rapidly across the gray dust.
Claire shrieked, dropping to her knees beside him, sobbing hysterically.
May you like
I walked forward, stopping just inches from Viktor’s twisting, writhing form, and looked down at him with absolute indifference.
“Contingency plans require living strategists, Viktor,” I whispered, crouching down so I was eye-level with his pale, sweat-soaked face. “And as of right now, you’re out of moves.”
