Chapter 6 - The Bloodhounds Of Oakland
The air on the warehouse floor grew electric, the silence broken only by the steady drip of rainwater leaking through a hole in the roof into a metal bucket below. Donnie Vane’s face twisted from absolute panic into a desperate, feral sneer as he realized there was no escape through the back exits. He motioned frantically to his two enforcers, who were now sweeping their 12-gauge shotguns toward the stairs.
"Light 'em up!" Donnie screamed, his voice cracking with panic. "I don't care who he is! This is our ground!"
Before the barrels could level, Derek was already moving. A former Army Ranger didn't wait for a fair fight; he eliminated variables. Derek vaulted up the first four steps of the metal staircase with terrifying speed, drawing a suppressed 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster with one fluid motion.
Puff. Puff.
Two suppressed shots cracked through the cavernous space. Both enforcers dropped their shotguns as matching rounds pierced their right shoulders, sending them crashing backward over the railing into a pile of discarded tires below. They groaned in pain, instantly neutralized without a single fatal wound being wasted.
Donnie stumbled back against the poker table, his hands shaking as he reached into his jacket for his own weapon. But before his fingers could close around the grip, Marcus was there.
The transition was instantaneous. One second Marcus was standing at the foot of the stairs; the next, he had cleared the entire flight, crossing the metal catwalk like an apex predator closing in on wounded prey. He grabbed Donnie by the lapels of his leather jacket, lifting the heavyset man off his feet with brutal, effortless strength, and slammed him down hard against the brick wall behind the table.
The impact knocked the wind out of Donnie in a violent gasp. Dust and flakes of old mortar rained down on their shoulders.
"Please," Donnie choked out, his hands clawing helplessly at Marcus’s wrists. "Please, Kane... we can work something out. The territory... the chop shop profits... I'll give you fifty percent of everything we pull this month!"
Marcus stared down at him, his slate-gray eyes completely devoid of mercy, burning with an icy intensity that made Donnie’s blood run cold.
"I don't want your chop shop, Donnie," Marcus said softly, his breath brushing the terrified thug's ear. "I don't want your territory. And I certainly don't want your dirty money."
"Then what... what do you want?" Donnie wheezed, his face turning purple as Marcus’s grip tightened on his collar.
"Justice," Marcus replied. "The kind you forgot exists."
With a sudden, explosive motion, Marcus dragged Donnie across the catwalk and shoved him headfirst down the metal stairs. Donnie tumbled down the steps in a chaotic tangle of limbs, hitting the concrete floor with a bone-jarring crash that echoed off the metal walls. He lay there groaning, blood trickling from a split eyebrow, completely broken and utterly defeated.
Derek walked down the stairs behind Marcus, stepping over Donnie’s writhing form without a second glance. "What do we do with him, boss? Do we take him to Pier Forty-Two?"
Marcus adjusted his cuffs, his face an impassive mask once more. "No. Call the Oakland Police Department’s internal affairs division. Leave an anonymous tip on their secure line with the exact GPS coordinates of this warehouse, the ledger of stolen vehicles on the hard drive in that office, and the hit-and-run report for Ryan Sullivan’s vehicle matching Donnie’s license plate."
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Derek paused, raising an eyebrow in genuine surprise. "You're turning him over to the cops? Since when do you do the state’s work for them?"
"Since tonight," Marcus said coldly, turning toward the exit. "Let the legal system chew him up slowly for the next twenty years. That’s a much more thorough punishment than a quick drop into the bay."
