Chapter 7 - The Docks of South Philly
At 3:45 A.M., the rain was falling in thick, grey sheets over the Delaware River.
The South Philadelphia navy yard was a wasteland of rusting shipping containers, abandoned warehouses, and slick, oil-stained asphalt. The wind off the water was freezing, carrying the salt smell of the bay mixed with the acrid scent of burning rubber and diesel.
Victor’s black Lincoln Navigator sat idling in the dark alley between two massive corrugated steel storage units, three hundred yards from Warehouse Nine.
Inside the vehicle, Victor sat in the driver's seat, his dark eyes glued to the rearview mirror. I sat beside him in the passenger seat, my denim jacket pulled tight around my chest, my silver falcon pendant held tightly in my fist.
In the back seat sat Rocco, looking like a caged bear holding a suppressed submachine gun across his lap. He still didn't know who I really was—Victor had simply told him that I was serving as an "asset" who knew the layout of the old Moretti properties.
"Boss," Rocco growled from the back, checking his watch. "The perimeter team is in position. We have six guys covering the north exit, four on the water side. If this guy is inside Nine, he's trapped."
"Nobody fires a shot until I give the order, Rocco," Victor commanded coldly, his eyes never leaving the mirrors. "Do you understand me? I want him alive."
Rocco grumbled under his breath. "He's blown up two million dollars worth of our inventory in two days, Victor. Leaving him breathing is a risk—"
"I don't care about the inventory," Victor snapped, his voice carrying an edge that shut Rocco up instantly. "I want to know who is backing him. Hold your men."
Victor shifted the Lincoln into park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and looked at me.
"Stay behind me," he whispered, reaching out to squeeze my hand once. His grip was warm, strong, and reassuring. "If he opens fire, drop to the asphalt behind the wheel base."
"He won't fire if he sees me," I said, though my stomach was churning with violent nausea.
We stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing downpour. The cold rain soaked through my denim jacket in seconds, but I barely felt it. Every nerve in my body was wired to the dark, cavernous opening of Warehouse Nine fifty yards ahead.
The warehouse was a massive, decaying brick structure with broken windows and a collapsed tin roof. Smoke was still wafting from the interior—the scent of thermite and scorched steel heavy in the air.
Victor pulled his weapon, keeping it low at his side, and led the way through the narrow side door of the structure. Rocco slipped in behind us, his submachine gun raised to his shoulder, sweeping the dark corners with his tactical light.
The interior of the warehouse was a maze of wooden crates, rusted machinery, and towering stacks of steel drums. The only illumination came from the moonlight filtering through the shattered skylights forty feet above.
"Julian!" I called out, my voice echoing wildly through the cavernous space.
Rocco hissed in frustration. "What the hell are you doing, girl?!"
"Shut up, Rocco!" Victor barked.
"Julian!" I screamed again, stepping past Victor into the central aisle of the warehouse. "Julian Moretti! It's Isabella!"
Silence returned to the warehouse, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of rain from the broken roof onto the concrete floor.
Then, from high above on the steel catwalk, a voice cut through the dark—cold, raspy, and full of hatred.
"Isabella died eighteen years ago," the voice echoed from the shadows. "Nice try, Sabatini. Did you bring a fake sister to make me lower my weapon before you murder me like your father murdered our parents?"
I snapped my head up toward the catwalk.
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Standing in the shadows, surrounded by the iron framework of the roof, was a tall, lean man in a dark tactical vest. In his hands, he held a scoped assault rifle, aimed directly at Victor's chest.
"Julian," I cried out, stepping into the patch of moonlight in the center of the room. I reached into my collar, pulled out the silver pendant, and held it high above my head so the silver bird caught the pale light. "Look at it, Julian! Look at the falcon!"
