Chapter 3 - The Cold Wharf
The rain turned sideways as we hit Pier 42. It was midnight, and the East River smelled like engine oil and rotting salt.
Victor Harlan’s men were moving crates under the glare of yellow halogen work lights. Big wooden boxes, marked with blue cross-country shipping codes, were being loaded onto a rusty container ship bound for international waters. They thought they were invisible out here in the storm. They thought Queens was theirs now.
I parked the Cadillac behind a rusted container, leaving the headlights off. In the back seat, Marco was shaking so hard his teeth clicked together like bone dice.
"You're going to walk over to that dock," I told him, turning in my seat. "You're going to tell Harlan the funeral went smoothly, the Vasquez family is broken, and Don Moretti is drowning his sorrows in a bottle of scotch."
"He'll know," Marco whimpered. "Harlan isn't stupid, Boss. He'll see it in my eyes."
"Then you better put on an Oscar-winning performance," I replied, pulling my silver Colt from my waist. "Because if you fail, Bruno won't wait for my command."
Beside me, Bruno lowered his head, a rumble building in his throat. His black fur was soaked with rain, his teeth gleaming under the dim interior light.
Tony racked the bolt of his Tommy gun in the back row. "Crew is in position around the perimeter, Don. Ten men at the north gate, six near the cranes. Nobody leaves this yard tonight."
"Good," I said. "Move."
Marco stumbled out of the car, his knees wobbling as he walked into the rain. Tony and I followed twenty paces behind, keeping to the deep shadows cast by stacks of corrugated steel. Bruno moved like a phantom at my left thigh, his broad pads making no sound on the wet asphalt.
Victor Harlan was standing on a raised wooden platform near the gangplank, wearing a camel-hair coat that cost more than most men made in a year. He was smoking a cigar, watching his goons haul the heavy crates.
"Marco!" Harlan called out over the roar of the wind, taking the cigar from his mouth. "You're late. Is the little bird buried?"
Marco stopped ten feet from the platform. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His chest hitched.
Harlan’s eyes narrowed instantly. He was a snake, quick to sense blood in the water. "Where’s your car, Marco? Why are you alone?"
"He's not alone," I said, stepping out from behind a steel pillar into the glare of the halogen lights.
Harlan froze. The four guards surrounding him reached for their jackets, but before their hands could touch leather, Bruno hit the ground running.
The dog didn't bark. He was a silent missile of muscle and fury. He cleared the five-foot jump onto the platform, locking his jaws around the head guard’s forearm. The man shrieked as he was thrown off the dock, splashing into the dark river below.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
Tony let loose a sweep from his submachine gun, chewing through the wooden railings and pinning Harlan’s men behind a forklift. My crew rushed the north gate, engine roars and shouting filling the night air.
I walked up the platform steps calmly, firing three controlled shots. Two guards dropped before they could aim; the third turned to run, but Bruno caught him by the calf, ripping him to the deck.
Harlan backed away until his spine hit the ship's gangplank, his hand fumbling inside his coat for a snub-nosed revolver.
I stepped on his wrist before he could clear the holster. The bone cracked, and he dropped the gun with a hoarse scream.
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"Don Moretti..." Harlan choked out, his slick hair plastered across his forehead. "This is a misunderstanding. It was business—just business!"
"You put a child in a box, Harlan," I hissed, leaning down until he could see his own terrified reflection in my eyes. "In my city, that isn't business. That's a death warrant."
