Chapter 5 - THE AMBUSH AT THE DOCKSFrom behind every rusted container, from atop the skeletal crane structures overhead, heavy boots hit the concrete.
At least a dozen armed men emerged from the shadows, their automatic rifles raised and locked directly onto my chest. Red laser dots danced across my coat, lighting up the fabric like a constellation of death.
Sarah didn't even flinch. She just tapped the screen of her tablet, watching me with an expression of mild pity.
"I didn't bring you here to kill you, Viktor," she said softly. "Despite what you might think, you're still my brother. I brought you here to offer you a retirement package."
"A retirement package," I echoed, my eyes scanning the perimeter, calculating angles, weights, and distances. There were too many guns. Even for me, even with reflexes sharpened by decades of street wars, moving against twelve armed men in an open concrete lot was suicide.
"Sign over the syndicate, Viktor," Sarah said, stepping right up to me, holding out the tablet and a digital stylus. "Transfer the port authorities, the real estate portfolios, and the offshore accounts to my holding company. In exchange, you walk away. Take your money, take your little dog, and go live out your days on a beach in Sicily. Never look back."
I looked down at the tablet. Then I looked into Sarah’s eyes—eyes that used to look up to me when we were kids running the streets of the Lower East Side, before power and blood corrupted everything we touched.
"And Marco?" I asked.
"Marco was a fool who couldn't handle a simple cleanup job," Sarah said dismissively. "He's expendable. You can do whatever you want with him after you sign."
I let out a slow, deliberate breath. My hand slid deeper into my coat pocket. My fingers wrapped securely around the cold steel of my .45.
"Sarah," I said quietly.
"Yes, big brother?"
"You forgot rule number one of the syndicate."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"Never leave the getaway vehicle running."
With a sudden, violent movement, I drew the pistol and fired three rounds straight up into the flickering overhead streetlamp.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The bulb shattered, plunging the entire pier into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Shouts erupted from the gunmen. Automatic weapons began to chatter, chewing wild holes into the empty air where I had been standing just a second before. Bullets ricocheted off rusted metal containers, sending white-hot sparks flying through the night like fireflies.
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I didn't run toward the water. I didn't hide behind the crates.
I dove flat onto the concrete, rolling hard behind a massive concrete piling, and let out a sharp, two-toned whistle that cut through the gunfire like a siren.
