Continue reading to uncover what happens next.

9 - 15

The night air over Pier 9 was thick with the salty scent of ocean mist and diesel exhaust. Massive shipping cranes towered against the starless sky like skeletal giants, while rows of towering steel containers formed a labyrinth of shadows along the concrete docks.

Inside the primary logistics warehouse, a dozen Duca syndicate guards monitored the inventory tracking consoles. Everything seemed routine.

Until the lights flickered and died.

"Power grid failure," one guard muttered, standing up from his terminal and reaching for his flashlight. "Check the breaker box outside."

Before he could take two steps toward the exit, the heavy steel roll-up door of the warehouse was blown violently inward with a deafening explosion of shattering metal and flying sparks.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the darkness.

Moretti’s strike team—thirty heavily armed mercenaries clad in black tactical gear and carrying suppressed submachine guns—poured through the breach like a swarm of angry hornets. The Duca guards scrambled for cover behind concrete pillars and steel crates, returning fire with disciplined, rapid-response volleys, but they were vastly outnumbered in the initial ambush.

"Push forward! Burn everything!" shouted a scarred mercenary commander, tossing a military-grade incendiary grenade toward a stack of high-value export crates near the center of the warehouse.

Flames erupted instantly, licking greedily up the sides of the wooden crates and filling the cavernous space with thick, choking black smoke.

From the shadows of the catwalk above, Marco watched the chaos unfold with cold, unblinking precision. He didn't panic. He didn't rush. He pulled a secure satellite radio from his tactical vest and pressed the transmission button.

"Boss. Pier 9 is compromised. Moretti’s primary strike force has breached the main warehouse. Estimated thirty hostiles, heavy ordnance."