Chapter 8 - THE GHOST IN THE WAREHOUSE
The main distribution warehouse for Moretti Import-Export sat at the very edge of the Dundalk marine terminals, a massive, cavernous steel structure surrounded by stacked shipping containers that loomed like giant colorful blocks in the pouring rain. Inside, towering rows of pallets stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lit by harsh sodium-vapor lamps that hummed with a low, electrical drone.
Marcus Vance stood by a computerized loading terminal near Dock Bay Four, checking manifests on a digital tablet while two armed guards stood smoking cigarettes by a stack of crated electronics near the rollup door. Vance wore an expensive wool overcoat over a tailored suit, looking every bit the corporate executive rather than a syndicate traitor.
The heavy side personnel door clicked open.
Vance didn't look up immediately, assuming it was one of the dock foremen bringing a customs manifest. "Put the paperwork on the desk, Eddie. I'm busy."
"Eddie is busy elsewhere, Marcus," a gravelly voice echoed across the concrete floor.
Vance froze. The digital tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete and shattering its screen against the floor. He spun around, his face draining of all color as Vincent Moretti walked out from the shadow of a towering stack of shipping crates.
Flanking Moretti on his left was Frankie Vane, and on his right—walking with a calm, deliberate stride that looked nothing like a twenty-four-year-old waitress—was Elena Marlowe.
"V-Vincent," Vance stammered, taking a step backward until his lower back hit the edge of the loading terminal. "You... you’re supposed to be—"
"Dead?" Moretti supplied smoothly, stopping ten feet away. "Explosives under mahogany tables are terribly inefficient, Marcus. Especially when someone with good eyes ruins the timing."
Vance’s eyes darted toward the two guards by the rollup door. The guards instinctively reached for the holsters beneath their jackets.
Before their fingers could even brush the grips of their weapons, a low, metallic clack echoed through the warehouse. Frankie Vane had already drawn his firearm, a suppressed automatic locked dead center on the forehead of the lead guard. At the same time, from the upper gantry catwalks above, two of Moretti’s senior enforcers stepped out of the shadows, their laser sights painting bright red dots across the chests of both guards.
"Don't do it, boys," Frankie called out, his voice ice-cold. "Your healthcare plan doesn't cover open-casket funerals."
The guards slowly raised their empty hands, stepping away from their sidearms.
Vance looked like a cornered animal, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the drafty chill of the warehouse. He looked at Moretti, then his eyes snapped over to Elena.
"You," Vance hissed, his voice trembling with venom. "It was a waitress. A little nobody from the floor staff. You let a kid ruin twenty years of planning?"
Elena stepped forward, her hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her dark coat—the coat she had bought that afternoon with a fraction of the twenty-five thousand dollar retainer Moretti had given her.
"I'm not a nobody, Marcus," Elena said, her voice cutting cleanly through the hum of the sodium lights. "I'm the person who keeps her eyes open when everyone else is too busy selling out their bosses."
Moretti stepped closer to Vance, his face impassive, like a granite monument carved by a century of salt storms.
"You wanted the Philly syndicate to take over the docks, Marcus?" Moretti asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You wanted to sell out our families for a percentage of their drug routes?"
"You were getting old, Vincent!" Vance shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "You were spending millions on shell companies and legitimate real estate! You lost your edge!"
"Maybe so," Moretti replied calmly. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, heavy brass key, and tossed it onto the concrete floor at Vance’s feet. "But my edge is still sharp enough to clean house."
Moretti turned his back on the traitor, walking toward the personnel door without looking back.
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"Take him out to the water, Frankie," Moretti said over his shoulder. "And make sure he understands what happens to people who try to blow up my dinner parties."
As Frankie moved in with a pair of steel zip-ties, Vance began to scream, but Elena didn't flinch. She turned and followed Moretti out into the rainy Baltimore night, the heavy steel door shutting behind them with a final, echoing bang.
