Chapter 6 - The Port Newark Trap
Three days later, Friday night at Port Newark was a concrete maze of towering gantry cranes, rusting shipping containers, and rolling fog drifting off the freezing Atlantic.
My black armored Mercedes Maybach idled near Berth 14, its headlights cutting through the damp maritime air. Inside, I adjusted the cuffs of my bespoke charcoal suit, checking the suppressed Sig Sauer resting snugly in my shoulder holster.
Marco sat in the passenger seat, tapping away at a tactical satellite tablet.
“We have visual on Sector B,” Marco reported quietly. “Vasiliev’s men are moving in. Twelve operatives, all armed with suppressed submachine guns. They think they’re intercepting our primary electronics shipment.”
“They aren't intercepting anything,” I replied coldly, opening my door and stepping out onto the wet asphalt. “They’re walking into a cage.”
Behind us, three tactical transport vans pulled silently out from the shadows of the container stacks, doors flying open to reveal thirty of my most elite enforcers, all clad in matte-black ballistic gear.
We moved with the silent, terrifying efficiency of ghosts.
Vasiliev’s men had already breached the master padlock on Container 409—a decoy shipping crate filled with empty wooden crates. As they swarmed inside with flashlights raised, Marco’s team sealed the exits from the outside, dropping heavy steel security bars across the double doors.
“Secure!” Marco shouted into his comms.
I walked calmly toward the container, my boots splashing through puddles of oily rainwater. I stepped up to the open side door where three of Vasiliev’s operatives were pinned against the metal walls, their weapons kicked away into the mud.
At the center of them stood Viktor Vasiliev himself.
He was a thick-necked, brutal-looking man in his late forties, wearing a heavy shearling leather coat, his face scarred from old knife fights in the dockyards of St. Petersburg. He didn't look panicked; instead, a slow, ugly smirk spread across his lips as he saw me approach.
“Adrien Moretti,” Viktor laughed, shaking his head as two of my guards forced him to his knees in the dirt. “You love playing the warlord, don't you? You think catching a few of my boys at a shipping yard makes you safe?”
I stopped two feet away from him, looking down as if examining an insect crawling across my shoe.
“You targeted my children, Viktor,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the maritime wind like a razor.
“Psychological warfare, Moretti,” Viktor sneered, blood pooling near his lip from where Marco had roughed him up during the sweep. “You spent six years building an impregnable fortress, but you forgot that a fortress is only as strong as the people inside it. Miller was easy to buy. And your babies... oh, they screamed so sweetly over the audio feed.”
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't yell.
I simply drew my Sig Sauer, cocked the hammer with a sharp, metallic click, and pressed the barrel directly against the center of Viktor’s forehead.
The smirk vanished from his face instantly.
“You think because you survived a few prison fights in Siberia, you understand fear, Viktor?” I murmured, my eyes locking onto his dilated pupils. “Fear isn't a gun pointed at your head. Fear is realizing that the man you tried to break... doesn't break at all. He just breaks you back.”
Viktor swallowed hard, sweat beading along his hairline despite the freezing wind. “If you kill me... my captains in Zurich will release the secondary payload. Every single bank account, every offshore routing number, every hidden asset you own—it goes public to the federal government.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh.
“Let them,” I said.
Before Viktor could process my words, a sharp red laser dot appeared dead-center on his chest.
From the top of a towering gantry crane two hundred yards away, one of my elite sniper spotters had locked onto him.
“You’re out of moves, Viktor,” I said, lowering my pistol just an inch so he could stare directly into my eyes. “Your assets in Zurich were seized by my cyber team forty-eight minutes ago, right after Miller gave up your offshore server keys. You’re broke, you’re cornered, and you’re standing on my docks.”
Viktor’s face went entirely pale. The arrogant Bratva boss evaporated, leaving only a desperate, trembling animal trapped in a corner.
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“Please... Moretti... let’s talk terms—”
“Marco,” I interrupted, stepping back and slipping my pistol back into its holster. “Take him to the secondary holding facility in Queens. Put him in a cell right next to Miller. Let them enjoy each other’s company.”
