I SIGNED HELLO TO A DEAF BOY WHILE HIS MAFIA FATHER REACHED FOR HIS GUN — THEN THE CHILD POINTED AT THE ONE MAN NOBODY SUSPECTED

At eight o'clock that evening, a thick, greasy fog rolled off the Atlantic, smothering the container terminals of Pier 14 in a cold grey shroud.

Pier 14 was the nerve center of the Marchetti operation—a massive, sprawling industrial complex of crane towers, corrugated steel warehouses, and stacked shipping containers four stories high.

Inside Warehouse 3, Julian Marchetti stood before forty heavily armed men. Automatic rifles, tactical shotguns, and body armor were laid out across wooden crates.

Julian paced back and forth, a thick bandage wrapped around his head from his encounter with Dominic in the basement.

"Whitmore is finished!" Julian roared, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "His lieutenants are abandoning him! His guards are fleeing the city! By midnight, we take control of the central container terminal, and tomorrow, Harbor City belongs to the Marchetti family!"

The forty men cheered, raising their weapons into the air.

Suddenly, every light in the warehouse went black.

The massive industrial overhead lights, the perimeter security floodlights, and the automated crane power grid died simultaneously. The entire ten-acre complex was plunged into pitch-black shadow, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the fog.

"What the hell?!" Julian shouted, drawing his pistol. "Check the emergency generators! NOW!"

Before anyone could move, a deep, mechanical hum vibrated through the concrete floor.

The massive automated container cranes surrounding Warehouse 3 began to move on their tracks—controlled remotely through the silver USB drive Grant had uploaded to the Port Authority mainframe fifteen minutes prior.

SCREECH!

A fifty-ton steel shipping container swung through the darkness, smashing through the side wall of Warehouse 3 with a deafening CRASH of tearing metal and shattering brick!

"ATTACK! WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" mercenaries screamed, firing blindly into the dust and darkness.

Muzzle flashes strobed through the shattered warehouse like violent lightning.

From the gaping hole in the ruined wall, a single figure stepped through the dust cloud.

Grant Whitmore walked into the facility wearing a dark tactical vest, holding a heavy shotgun at his hip. Behind him, flanked by thirty heavily armed Whitmore loyalists who had remained faithful to their kingpin, stepped Dominic.

"Julian Marchetti!" Grant’s voice boomed through the chaotic facility like thunder. "You wanted my docks! Come and take them!"

BOOM!

Grant fired his shotgun, lifting a Marchetti gunman off his feet and throwing him ten feet backward across a wooden crate.

The warehouse erupted into total, unyielding war.

Automatic weapon fire tore through metal shelving, exploding barrels of industrial oil, sending plumes of fire roaring thirty feet into the dark night sky. Shell casings rained down onto the concrete floor like golden hail.

Grant moved through the chaos like a ghost of vengeance. He didn't seek cover. He walked forward with terrifying, methodical precision, clearing every aisle, firing his weapon until the slide locked back, swapping magazines in a fraction of a second, his grey eyes locked onto the central office balcony where Julian was retreating.

Julian scrambled up the iron stairs toward the second-floor office, his face slick with sweat and terror, firing wild shots over his shoulder. "KILL HIM! KILL HIM! I'LL GIVE A MILLION DOLLARS TO THE MAN WHO BRINGS ME HIS HEAD!"

Grant reached the foot of the iron staircase. He tossed his empty shotgun aside, drew two heavy pistols from his belt, and began stepping up the stairs, firing upward with brutal accuracy.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Julian’s two personal bodyguards fell over the railing, crashing onto the concrete floor below.

Julian sprinted into the office, slamming the heavy reinforced door shut and locking the deadbolt. He leaned against the metal door, his chest heaving, his hands shaking so violently he dropped his pistol’s spare magazine onto the floor.

BOOM!