Chapter 7 - The Trap at Pier 42The rain hammered down against the rusted tin roof of Pier 42 like a thousand iron drums, washing away the smell of saltwater and old fish with the metallic tang of approaching violence.
Nikolai Ivanov stood in the center of the abandoned shipping warehouse, surrounded by a dozen armed enforcers clad in black tactical gear. He took a slow drag from a Cuban cigar, blowing a thick ring of smoke into the damp night air.
"Moretti is losing his grip," Nikolai laughed, his deep, rumbling voice echoing off the concrete pillars. "Bringing stray dogs and shelter workers into his fortress. The mighty king of Manhattan has gone soft."
"Are you sure about that, Nikolai?"
The heavy iron doors at the front of the warehouse groaned open, sliding apart with a deafening screech.
Headlights cut through the blinding sheets of rain. A single black SUV rolled into the center of the warehouse, its engine idling low. The doors opened, and Vincent Moretti stepped out into the rain. He wasn't wearing a tactical vest. Just his signature black suit and dark wool coat, completely unbothered by the downpour. He stood alone.
Or so Nikolai thought.
"Brave of you to come by yourself, Vincent," Nikolai sneered, stepping forward with his hand resting near his holster, surrounded by his heavily armed guards. "Hand over the shipping routes, and maybe I'll let you keep your fancy mansion. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise what?" Vincent interrupted, his voice cutting through the rain like a razor. "You think because you poisoned a dog and sent a coward through my front door that you won the game?"
Nikolai raised his pistol, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Kill him."
Before Nikolai’s men could even raise their assault rifles, the shadows above them came alive.
From the rusted catwalks high above the shipping containers, twelve of Vincent’s elite enforcers dropped silently onto the concrete floor, weapons drawn and locked onto the Bratva's targets. At the same time, the side doors blew open with a deafening crash.
And leading the charge from the shadows wasn't a man.
It was Rusty.
He was moving at full speed, fully recovered from the poison, his massive jaws bared as he slammed directly into Nikolai’s lead enforcer, sending him flying backward into a stack of empty crates. The element of complete surprise broke the Bratva’s formation in an instant.
"Shoot the dog!" Nikolai screamed, raising his own weapon.
"Don't you dare," a chilling voice echoed from the doorway.
Nikolai froze, his finger hovering over the trigger.
May you like
I stepped into the light, holding a heavy tactical remote connected to the warehouse's master grid. With a sharp click, every single floodlight and overhead crane above the pier slammed downward, trapping Nikolai’s men under tons of suspended steel cables.
Within three minutes, the firefight was over. Nikolai’s enforcers were disarmed and pinned to the floor by Vincent’s men. Rusty stood directly over Nikolai, planting a heavy paw squarely on the mob boss’s chest, his low, bone-chilling growl vibrating through the wet concrete.
