Chapter 7 - THE BLOOD AT PIER 44Pier 44 was an abandoned shipping warehouse on the dark, foggy edges of the South River.
Rain fell in heavy sheets, drumming violently against the rusted corrugated iron roof of the warehouse.
Inside, Clara and her elderly father were tied to wooden chairs in the center of the concrete floor. Eight armed mercenaries armed with assault rifles stood guard around them, while Richard Kensington paced near a row of rusted shipping containers, drinking scotch from a flask.
"Dad... I'm scared," Clara wept, her lip bleeding.
"Stay quiet, baby," her father murmured, his eyes dark. "Brielle will come. She's strong."
Suddenly, the massive metal sliding doors of the warehouse were torn open by the front bumper of a heavy armored Black Suburban!
CRASH!
The Suburban smashed through the wooden barricades, skidding to a halt in the middle of the warehouse floor, its bright LED headlights blinding the mercenaries.
"Open fire!" Vance screamed, raising his rifle.
Before the mercenaries could shoot, six smoke grenades were launched from the Suburban's sunroof, filling the warehouse with thick, blinding grey tear gas!
POP-POP-POP-POP!
Gunfire erupted through the smoke—precise, brutal, suppressed rounds snapping through the air. Mercenaries screamed as they dropped one by one, caught in a crossfire of military-grade precision.
Through the drifting gas walked Nico Valenti, carrying a high-caliber shotgun, blowing through three mercenaries with terrifying efficiency.
Beside him walked Brielle.
She wasn't hiding behind him. She was wearing her black leather trench coat, her wounded hand gripped firmly around the Glock 19.
A mercenary lunged at her through the smoke, raising a knife!
Brielle didn't hesitate. She stepped into his guard, raised the Glock, and fired two rounds point-blank into his chest!
BANG! BANG!
The mercenary collapsed backward into the concrete, dead before he hit the floor.
Nico flicked his eyes toward her, a dark, primal grin splitting his face as he racked another shotgun shell. "Beautiful shot, dolcezza!"
"I took self-defense classes on the East Side!" Brielle yelled back over the gunfire, moving swiftly toward her tied-up family.
Within ninety seconds, seven of the eight mercenaries were dead or dying on the concrete.
Vance tried to run toward a side exit, but Marco stepped out from the shadows, hitting him across the face with the butt of an assault rifle, knocking him unconscious onto the floor.
The smoke began to clear.
Richard Kensington was crouching behind a wooden crate, his scotch flask dropped, wetting himself in pure, unadulterated terror.
Brielle walked over to her sister and father, quickly using a combat knife dropped by a mercenary to slice their ropes.
"Brielle!" Clara sobbed, throwing her arms around her sister's neck. "Oh my God! You... you shot that man!"
"He tried to hurt you," Brielle said softly, kissing her sister's forehead. "Nobody hurts my family."
She turned around and walked over to where Richard Kensington was cowering on his knees.
Nico stood beside the cowering oil tycoon, his shotgun resting casually against his shoulder, waiting for his wife's command.
"Please!" Richard whimpered, looking up at Brielle. "Please, Brielle! I’ll give you fifty million dollars! I’ll leave Grayhaven forever! Don't let him kill me!"
Brielle looked down at the man who had ordered her sister’s kidnapping—the man whose daughter had called her trash and shoved her into glass.
Brielle slowly raised her Glock, pointing the barrel straight between Richard Kensington’s eyes.
"You called me trash, Richard," Brielle said, her voice dropping into a haunting, cold whisper. "You said people like me belong in the back."
Richard squeezed his eyes shut, sobbing hysterically. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Nico," Brielle said, her eye never leaving the target.
"Yes, my love?" Nico answered gently.
May you like
"Take his oil company," Brielle commanded cold as ice. "Liquidate his assets, give half to the hospital workers on the East Side, and toss him into a federal prison for kidnapping."
Nico smiled—a glorious, terrifying smile of pure pride. "Your word is law, Donnessa."
