Chapter 8 - Crossfire at Pier 44The abandoned shipping yard at Pier 44 was a labyrinth of rusted cargo containers, towering crane booms, and the rhythmic lapping of dark river water against concrete pylons.
Tristan’s convoy of three black SUVs slid silently into the shadows near warehouse C. The doors opened in unison, disgorging a dozen heavily armed enforcers who fanned out with military precision.
Tristan stayed crouched behind the rear door of the lead vehicle, his hand resting on Bianca’s shoulder to keep her low.
"Stay behind me," he whispered, his eyes scanning the dark catwalks above. "If shots ring out, hit the deck and do not move."
Before Bianca could nod, a blinding spotlight flooded the loading bay from the roof of warehouse C.
"Tristan Bellamy!" a harsh, amplified voice boomed across the concrete through a megaphone. "You walked right into the slaughterhouse, you arrogant son of a bitch!"
Automatic gunfire erupted from the catwalks, chewing into the metal siding of the SUVs in a deafening chorus of violence. Glass shattered, tires blew out, and Bellamy’s enforcers immediately returned fire with precision suppressing shots.
"Move! Now!" Tristan yelled, grabbing Bianca’s hand and dragging her behind the heavy steel frame of a cargo container.
Bullets pinged off the metal inches from their heads. The air filled with the sharp, acrid smell of cordite and burning rubber. Bianca’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her medical training kicked in—she scanned the courtyard and saw one of Tristan’s men take a round to the shoulder, collapsing behind a wooden crate.
"He's hit!" Bianca shouted over the gunfire.
"Stay down!" Tristan ordered, raising his pistol and firing two rapid shots upward, dropping a sniper off the catwalk with lethal accuracy.
"I'm a nurse, Tristan! I can't let him bleed out!" Bianca yelled, breaking away from his grip before he could stop her.
She sprinted across the open pavement, bullets kicking up concrete dust at her heels, and threw herself behind the crate beside the wounded enforcer.
"Hold on, press the wound!" she ordered, ripping open her medical pouch.
As she worked frantically to stem the arterial bleeding, a shadow loomed over them. A heavy boot kicked her medical kit away, scattering supplies across the concrete.
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Bianca looked up slowly. Standing above her was Vincenzo Moretti himself—a hulking, scarred man with a sadistic grin, holding a chrome-plated pistol aimed directly at her forehead.
"Well, well," Moretti sneered, laughing darkly. "Looks like the untouchable Tristan Bellamy found himself a weakness. Let’s see how much he cares about his little nurse."
