Chapter 5 - The Bait and the TrapBack at the diner apartment, Roland and Clara were mapping their next move. Without money, communications, or an army, Roland was effectively stripped of his throne. But a wounded wolf was more dangerous than a pack of hounds.
"We can't stay here," Roland said, pacing the small floorboards, clutching his bandaged ribs. "Curtis's men will sweep the docks by nightfall. They'll check every registered resident and every known associate."
"They won't check The Rusty Anchor today," Clara countered, tossing him a heavy woolen beanie and a stained mechanic's jumpsuit. "My boss is out sick, and the diner is closed for inventory. But we need supplies, and more importantly, we need a secure line to the outside world. The old payphone down at the pier still works if you have quarters."
Roland stared at the disguise. For a man accustomed to bespoke Zegna suits and armed motorcades, wearing grease-stained overalls was an exercise in pure humiliation. Yet, his tactical mind accepted the necessity.
"Put this on," Clara added, tossing him a pair of thick-rimmed safety glasses and a greasy baseball cap. "If anyone asks, you're my cousin from out of town helping me fix the walk-in freezer."
As they stepped out into the freezing afternoon air, Goliath trotted close beside Roland, his massive grey head brushing against the mob boss’s knee. Roland looked down at the scarred beast, a rare, soft flicker crossing his hardened eyes. Animals knew true loyalty; humans were infinitely more treacherous.
They reached the rusted payphone near the fish market. The wind howled off the bay, carrying the scent of salt and frozen brine. Roland fed a quarter into the slot—a relic of an older era—and punched in a ten-digit sequence known to only three people on earth.
It rang twice before a rasped, cautious voice answered.
"Speak."
"It's me, Silas," Roland said, his voice hard as iron.
On the other end of the line, absolute silence reigned for three seconds. Then, a sharp intake of breath. "Boss? Holy Mother of God... Curtis told the inner circle you drowned in the harbor crash. He seized the accounts, locked down the docks, and declared himself chairman."
"Curtis is a dead man walking," Roland growled. "Listen to me very carefully, Silas. I need you to bypass our digital network. Curtis has likely compromised the main servers. Pull my emergency stash from the vault at the old dry dock—the physical bearer bonds and the ledger from '18. Meet me at midnight behind the abandoned fish cannery."
"I'm on it, Boss," Silas replied, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. "We'll take back what's ours."
May you like
Roland hung up the receiver and turned around—only to freeze. Fifty yards away, idling by a row of shipping containers, was a black sedan with tinted windows.
Vince stepped out of the driver's side, scanning the pier with cold, predatory eyes.
