Chapter 6 - The Red Hook DocksThe rain had begun to fall over New York, turning the greasy asphalt of the Red Hook dry docks into a mirror of neon reflections and muddy puddles.
Gabriel’s black armored Suburban slid to a halt fifty yards from the skeletal frame of an abandoned freighter crane.
He stepped out into the freezing downpour, wearing his dark wool coat, his expression carved from stone. He didn't carry a visible weapon, but every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring, ready to strike.
From the shadows of the rusted hull, Viktor Vance stepped forward, flanked by six armed enforcers holding submachine guns at the ready. Vance was a tall, silver-haired Russian with cold, dead eyes and an expensive cashmere coat that looked entirely out of place amidst the rust and salt water.
“Gabriel Cross,” Vance sneered in heavily accented English, spreading his arms wide. “The great king of Manhattan shipping. Walking right into the lion’s den, all alone. I must admit, I expected you to put up more of a fight before handing over the North River terminals.”
“You picked the wrong fight, Viktor,” Gabriel said, his voice cutting through the sound of the crashing waves against the bulkhead.
“Did I?” Vance laughed, a dry, grating sound. “We shall see. Where are the boys, Gabriel? Where is the little family you spent five years pretending didn't exist?”
“They’re safe,” Gabriel replied flatly.
“For now,” Vance smiled, nodding to one of his enforcers, who pulled a detonator from his pocket. “Unless you sign over the franchise codes right here, right now, my men in Brooklyn are paying a very special visit to the safehouse on Long Island where your dear ex-wife is hiding.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
Long Island?
Vance didn't know about the Adirondacks safehouse. He was bluffing. He didn't have Claire.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Gabriel’s face—the smile that men saw just before they realized they had stepped into a slaughterhouse.
“You think my wife is on Long Island?” Gabriel asked softly.
Vance’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a trap,” Gabriel said.
Before Vance could raise his hand to give the order to fire, the night sky lit up with blinding white illumination as four armored SUVs smashed through the corrugated tin gates of the dry dock, their high-beams pinning Vance and his men against the rusted freighter.
Dante and twenty heavily armed Cross enforcers poured from the vehicles, weapons raised and locked.
“Drop your weapons!” Dante roared, his voice echoing across the harbor.
Vance’s enforcers panicked, but before they could bring their submachine guns to bear, a dozen red laser dots danced across their chests.
Gabriel didn't wait for Vance to surrender.
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He crossed the wet asphalt in three massive strides, grabbed the Russian syndicate boss by the lapels of his expensive cashmere coat, and slammed him against the rusted iron hull of the crane with enough force to rattle teeth.
“You threatened my family, Viktor,” Gabriel whispered, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with murderous intent. “You touch my sons, you touch Claire... and I don't just take your shipping terminals. I take your life.”
