Chapter 5 - THE BLOOD ON THE DOCK
The storm reached its peak at eleven o'clock.
In the lower service garage of the Cross Tower, three black SUVs sat idling near the main loading bay. The air was thick with the smell of diesel exhaust, wet concrete, and cold rain blowing in through the open security gate.
Victor Volkov sat in the rear seat of the middle SUV, a heavy fur-lined coat pulled around his broad shoulders. He was a man in his late fifties, his face scarred by forty years of brutal street warfare in Eastern Europe, his eyes small, dark, and calculating.
He was checking his gold pocket watch when the heavy steel security gate behind his vehicles suddenly slammed down with a deafening, hydraulic roar.
Volkov sat up, his hand reaching for the door handle. “What was that?”
Before his driver could answer, every fluorescent light in the lower garage went black.
Complete, suffocating darkness enveloped the three SUVs.
“Get the lights on!” Volkov barked in Russian, pulling a dark-barreled Tokarev pistol from his coat.
Inside the SUVs, eight men pulled their weapons, their tactical lights cutting sharp, bright beams through the dark air of the garage.
Then, the service elevator doors at the end of the bay slid open.
A single spotlight clicked on above the elevator frame, casting a bright, white circle of light across the concrete floor.
Nathaniel Cross stepped into the light.
He was not wearing his tuxedo jacket. He wore a dark wool coat, black leather gloves, and held his Sig Sauer loosely at his side. Standing behind him were six of his guards, their suppressed weapons pointed directly at the three vehicles.
Volkov stepped out of his SUV, his face twisted in disbelief. “Where is Richard?”
Nathaniel stopped ten feet from the front bumper of Volkov’s car.
“Richard met an unexpected obstacle at the Pierre,” Nathaniel said, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the rain hammering the steel shutters. “He will not be joining us tonight, Victor.”
Volkov’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. He looked at the six guards standing in the shadows behind Nathaniel, then at the steel shutters blocking the only exit to the street.
“You think you can hold me here, Cross?” Volkov sneered, his voice rough and guttural. “I have forty men positioned along the waterfront right now. If I don't call them in ten minutes, your shipping docks in Brooklyn will burn to the ground.”
Nathaniel pulled his phone from his coat pocket, tapped the screen once, and held it out toward Volkov.
The speaker clicked on.
The calm, flat voice of Marcus came through the line: “Boss. Brooklyn is clear. Volkov’s waterfront team has been disarmed and handed to the Federal Harbor Patrol. We found four tons of unregistered weapons in their shipping containers.”
Volkov’s face went completely grey. His hand holding the pistol began to tremble slightly. “You... you couldn't have known...”
“I didn't know until an hour ago,” Nathaniel said, stepping closer until he was three feet from Volkov. “I spent twelve years trusting Richard. I thought he was loyal because I gave him a life, a career, and ten percent of every dock we took.”
He reached out, his gloved hand taking the heavy Tokarev pistol from Volkov’s limp fingers and tossing it onto the wet concrete floor.
“Turns out,” Nathaniel continued softly, his grey eyes burning with an absolute, terrifying coldness, “he was just cheap. And so are you.”
“Nathaniel... wait—” Volkov gasped, taking a step back.
Nathaniel didn't raise his gun. He simply looked at Marcus, who stepped forward from the shadow of the elevator, holding a thick Manila folder filled with property deeds and banking records.
“You are going to sign the release for the Brooklyn northern pier, Victor,” Nathaniel said calmly. “And then you are going to take your men, get on a boat to Montreal, and never set foot in the state of New York again.”
“And if I refuse?” Volkov hissed.
Nathaniel stepped closer, leaning down until his face was inches from Volkov’s ear.
“If you refuse,” Nathaniel whispered, “I will tell the federal prosecutor who gave me the access codes to your offshore account in Geneva. The account where you kept the three million dollars you stole from the Solntsevskaya syndicate last winter.”
Volkov’s eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing terror.
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“You wouldn't...” Volkov choked out.
“Try me,” Nathaniel said flatly. “Sign the paper, Victor. You have two minutes before I make the call.”
