Chapter 6 - THE RETRIBUTION
The heavy industrial sprinkler system mounted in the high ceiling activated instantly.
Instead of warm water, thousands of gallons of freezing, high-pressure brine solution poured down over the trapped men, soaking their heavy coats, blinding them, and making the concrete floor impossibly slick.
“Kill him!” Moretti roared, pointing up at the control tower. “Open fire on the tower!”
The eleven armed henchmen raised their carbines and opened fire. A hail of bullets smashed against the control tower windows. But the glass was three-inch reinforced ballistic polycarbonate; the rounds simply spider-webbed the surface without breaking through.
“Vance,” Gabriel said calmly. “Clear the floor.”
Marcus Vance flipped four toggles on the main board.
From the darkened alcoves along the warehouse walls, high-intensity sound cannons—industrial crowd-control devices designed for harbor security—emitted a targeted, low-frequency acoustic pulse.
The sound wave hit the men on the floor like a physical battering ram. The sheer volume fractured the air, causing the shooters to drop their weapons, clutching their ears in agonizing pain as their balance shattered.
Men collapsed into the freezing slush on the floor, weeping, disoriented, vomiting from the acoustic vibration.
Within two minutes, all eleven hitters were disarmed and incapacitated on the floor. Only Moretti, Nolan Pierce, and the bleeding Evan Cross remained standing, slumped against the tires of their idling SUVs.
Gabriel stepped out of the control tower.
He walked down the metal staircase slowly, his heavy leather boots thudding against the iron steps. He wore no vest, no helmet—just his dark overcoat, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
Behind him came Marcus Vance and eight heavily armed security operatives, their laser sights sweeping the warehouse floor, securing the incapacitated hitters.
Gabriel stopped ten feet away from Evan, who was shivering violently in the freezing water, clutching his ruined leg.
Nolan Pierce dropped to his knees, dropping his picking kit, tears streaming down his face. “Mr. Rowan! Please! I was just paid fifty thousand dollars by Evan! I don't know anything about the mob! Please don't kill me!”
Gabriel didn't even look at Nolan. He made a small gesture with his hand.
Vance stepped forward, grabbed Nolan by the collar, dragged him across the wet floor, and zip-tied his hands behind his back.
Gabriel walked up to Frank Moretti.
The old mob boss stood his ground, breathing heavily, his mink collar soaked through, his revolver hanging uselessly at his side. He looked at Gabriel’s eyes—and for the first time in thirty years, Frank Moretti saw true, unadulterated death staring back at him.
“Gabriel...” Moretti rasped, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. “We can settle this. I have twenty million in a Zurich trust. It’s yours. All of it.”
“I don't want your money, Frank,” Gabriel said softly. “You broke the peace treaty of 2018. You tried to corrupt my house. You put a gun to the head of my daughter’s future.”
“You don't have a daughter,” Moretti choked out.
“I do now,” Gabriel replied.
Gabriel took a sleek black pistol from Vance’s holster.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't make a speech.
He raised the weapon and fired a single shot.
Frank Moretti fell backward onto the frozen concrete, dead before he hit the ground.
Silence descended on Warehouse 4, punctuated only by the rhythmic dripping of the brine sprinklers and Evan Cross’s ragged, sobbing breaths.
Gabriel turned his eyes toward Evan.
The man who had pulled him out of a parking garage fire fourteen years ago looked up at him from the wet ground, his eyes wide with absolute, pathetic terror.
“Gabriel...” Evan whimpered, clutching Gabriel’s boot with a wet, trembling hand. “Brother... please.”
Gabriel stared down at his oldest friend. A profound, hollow aching filled his chest—the grief of a man who realized that the brother he loved had died years ago, replaced by a ghost made of greed.
“Don't call me brother,” Gabriel whispered.
He pulled his boot back, freeing himself from Evan’s grip.
“Vance.”
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“Boss?”
“Don't kill him,” Gabriel commanded, his voice cold as the Chicago blizzard outside. “Bind his wounds. Put him in the back of the car. We have one more stop to make before the sun comes up.”
