The heavy mahogany doors of the Moretti estate swung open, cutting through the chilling silence of the winter evening

The Port of Bayonne was a maze of rusted shipping containers, towering gantry cranes, and icy salt spray blowing off the dark waters of the bay. Heavy industrial lights cast sickly yellow halos through the driving blizzard.

Luca killed the headlights of the G63 half a mile before the private Moretti Logistics terminal. He glided the SUV behind a stack of abandoned refrigerated containers and stepped out into the biting cold.

The wind tore at his coat, but he didn’t feel it. Adrenaline surged through his veins, hot and electric.

Through the curtain of falling snow, he spotted activity near Berth 14. A nondescript black cargo vessel, the *St. Jude’s Star*, flew a Panamanian flag. At the base of the gangway sat two black Cadillac Escalades with their engines running, exhaust billowing into the freezing air.

Four men in heavy tactical gear stood guard around the perimeter, automatic rifles held against their chests.

In the center of the loading zone, standing beneath the glare of an industrial floodlight, was Julian Moretti. He wore a cashmere overcoat, barking orders into a satellite phone while two men loaded heavy titanium cases into the belly of the ship.

Luca moved like a shadow between the steel containers. He reached inside his coat and drew a customized Sig Sauer P320 from his shoulder holster.

He didn’t intend to commit murder. Julian deserved a cage, deserved to rot in federal custody, stripped of every cent and every ounce of pride he possessed. But Luca had no illusions about Julian’s mercenaries: they were paid to kill.

Luca reached the edge of container 304, less than thirty feet from the lead Escalade.

Suddenly, the metallic click of a rifle hammer cocked directly behind his ear.

“Hands where I can see them, Mr. Moretti,” a low, gravelly voice spoke from the darkness.

Luca didn't flinch. He raised his hands slowly, his weapon still gripped in his right hand.

“You’re on the wrong payroll, friend,” Luca said quietly.

“Twenty-five grand to put you in the bay says I’m on the right one,” the mercenary sneered.

Before the guard could squeeze the trigger, a sharp, suppressed *thwip-thwip* echoed through the snow.

The mercenary grunted, dropped his rifle, and collapsed face-first onto the frozen gravel. Two tranquilizer darts protruded from the back of his neck.

Luca spun around. Emerging from the shadows between the containers was Marcus Vance—not a relative of the treacherous doctor, but Luca’s head of private operations and former British Special Forces operative. Behind him were six heavily armed private contractors clad in sterile black gear.

“You’re late, Marcus,” Luca whispered, lowering his weapon.

Marcus grinned faintly, checking his carbine sight. “Traffic on the turnpike was dreadful, sir. Shall we take out the trash?”

“Non-lethal where possible,” Luca ordered. “I want Julian alive. He has to see everything he built crumble to dust.”

“Understood.”