Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Julian scrambled backward across his glass-topped desk, knocking over lamp stands, papers, and whiskey bottles, holding his gun up with both trembling hands.
"Grant! Wait! Listen to me!" Julian shrieked, his voice cracking with pathetic terror. "It was Daniel! Daniel planned everything! He came to me! He offered me the docks! I was just taking an opportunity!"
Grant walked slowly across the office. His face was smeared with soot and gunsmoke, a thin line of blood running down his jaw from a flying glass shard, but his eyes were completely clear.
He didn't fire his weapon. He stopped three feet from the desk, looking down at the groveling rival boss.
"You threatened my son, Julian," Grant said, his voice dropping into a soft, deadly whisper. "You called him a mute cripple."
"I was wrong! I'm sorry!" Julian wept, pressing his back against the high glass window overlooking the burning harbor. "Take the docks! Take my family's holdings! Take everything! Just let me leave the city!"
"You don't get to leave," Grant said quietly.
Grant stepped forward, grabbed Julian’s coat collar with his left hand, and lifted the man clean off his feet, slamming him against the thick window frame.
With his right hand, Grant reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small, silver signet ring he had taken off Daniel Crane’s hand the night before.
Grant pressed the heavy metal ring into Julian’s palm, forcing Julian’s fingers shut around it.
"Give this to Daniel when you see him in hell," Grant growled.
Grant swung his right fist with terrifying force, smashing his forearm into Julian’s chest, driving the rival boss through the thick reinforced glass window!
CRASH!
Julian let out a long, fading scream as he fell sixty feet through the night air, crashing heavily onto the roof of a burning shipping container below.
Grant stood at the shattered window, the cold sea wind whipping his hair, watching the fire consume the remnants of the Marchetti syndicate.
Behind him, the heavy sound of gunfire in the warehouse below slowly died away to silence.
Dominic walked into the office, his tactical vest torn, holding a radio handset.
"The warehouse is secured, Boss," Dominic reported, wiping blood from his cheek. "Marchetti’s organization is completely dismantled. The remaining foot soldiers have surrendered."
Grant turned around slowly, looking at his oldest, most loyal friend. "And the federal authorities?"
Dominic looked out the shattered window toward the entrance gates of Pier 14.
Dozens of red and blue flashing lights were spilling across the foggy docks. A fleet of thirty Federal Bureau of Investigation vehicles, accompanied by armored SWAT transport trucks, were rolling onto the property, sealing every exit.
Stepping out of the lead vehicle was Federal Prosecutor Sarah Vance, wearing a navy trench coat, flanked by twenty armed agents.
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Grant looked down at his blood-stained hands. He let out a long, quiet breath—the breath of a man who had finally carried his heaviest burden to the end of the road.
"Tell them I am coming down," Grant said quietly. "It's time to pay the bill."
