Chapter 8 - The Hunt and the Hostage
The East Docks were shrouded in a sulfurous, oily fog rolling off the East River.
Warehouse Nine was a sprawling industrial labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering gantry cranes, and corrugated steel. Inside, the sound of diesel generators hummed alongside the crackle of burning paper as Sal’s men desperately tried to destroy evidence in fifty-gallon steel drums.
Outside, the rain began to fall again—cold, torrential, and relentless.
Dominic’s black SUVs arrived like ghosts, cutting their headlights three blocks away. Thirty Falcone enforcers moved through the shadows with military precision, cutting the perimeter wire and executing the sentries with suppressed carbines before an alarm could be raised.
Gemma had insisted on remaining in the mobile command van two hundred yards from the warehouse perimeter, coordinating the building’s schematics through the dock’s digital infrastructure.
“Dominic,” she spoke through the encrypted tactical earpiece. “The warehouse has three exits. The front bay, the loading docks facing the water, and an underground utility conduit that runs toward the rail yard. If Sal tries to run, he’ll take the conduit.”
“Understood,” Dominic’s calm, lethal voice replied through the static. “Dante, take team two and seal the rail yard. The rest of you, breach on my mark.”
Inside the command van, Gemma monitored the thermal heat signatures on her laptop. She watched as Dominic’s team moved into position. Despite her confidence in him, her stomach was twisted in knots. He was running on adrenaline and pure willpower, his wound held together only by stitches and gauze.
Suddenly, a red warning light flared on her secondary monitor.
An unauthorized vehicle—a nondescript delivery van—had bypassed the outer police perimeter and was pulling up directly behind the command unit.
Before Gemma could reach for the radio, the van’s doors burst open. Three men in tactical gear with Moretti insignias swarmed the command vehicle. The lone Falcone guard outside was dropped with a taser dart, and the rear doors of Gemma’s van were ripped open.
“Found the bookkeeper!” a voice barked.
Gemma lunged for the sidearm resting on the dashboard, but a heavy gloved hand caught her hair, wrenching her backward. A rag soaked in chloroform was pressed against her nose and mouth. She fought, kicking and scratching at her captor’s face, tearing away his tactical goggles, but the chemical fumes were overwhelming.
Her earpiece fell to the floor of the van.
The last thing she heard before the darkness took her was Dominic’s voice, turning from cold professional command into a roar of unadulterated panic:
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*“Gemma! GEMMA! ANSWER ME!”*
***
