Chapter 8
Before Kane could reach inside his trench coat, Ronan moved with the blinding, explosive speed of a striking viper.
His left hand shot forward like an iron clamp, locking around Kane’s throat with hydraulic force, lifting the younger man off his feet and slamming his back against the rusted steel drum. The aluminum briefcase tumbled to the floor, popping open on impact to reveal stacks of encrypted satellite transponders and sealed diplomatic transit folders.
Kane choked, his eyes bulging in sudden, desperate terror, his hands clawing uselessly at Ronan’s iron grip.
"You... you can't... kill me," Kane wheezed through his crushed windpipe. "The Geneva board... has thirty operatives... in the city—"
"The Geneva board lost their thirty operatives twenty minutes ago, Kane," Dominic’s gravelly voice cut in from the shadows.
Dominic stepped forward, holding up a secure tactical tablet displaying live, red-bordered surveillance feeds from the private heliport at Pier 6. On the screen, three luxury transport helicopters sat surrounded by federal customs vehicles, flashing red-and-blue emergency strobes, and twenty heavily armed men in dark tactical windbreakers with Crestwell crests pinned to their lapels.
"Customs enforcement seized their flight clearance at eleven-thirty," Dominic said, a cold smirk touching his scarred face. "Under an emergency maritime fraud warrant signed by the district attorney. Your European clients are currently sitting in zip-ties inside a federal holding pen in Queens."
Kane went limp in Ronan’s grip, the blood draining from his face until he looked like an unburied corpse.
Ronan slowly lowered the man back to the concrete, but his iron fingers remained clamped around Kane’s throat, pressing him against the metal drum.
"Now," Ronan whispered, his breath brushing Kane’s ear, cold and terrifying as a winter grave. "Tell me who in New York gave Geneva the location of the refinery."
Kane’s teeth chattered violently, tears of pure agony leaking from the corners of his eyes. "It... it wasn't Dacre... I swear to God, Ronan, Dacre didn't know about the refinery!"
"I know my son is an idiot, Kane," Ronan murmured. "I asked you who gave them the location."
"It was... it was Sybil’s father!" Kane blurted out, breaking completely under the pressure. "Victor Van Dorn! He made the deal with Geneva six months ago! He used Sybil’s engagement to get inside the family vault at your estate! Victor has the second key!"
Ronan’s eyes narrowed into twin shards of slate.
He didn't roar in fury. He didn't curse. The stillness that settled over his angular, scarred face was so terrifying that even the veteran capos standing along the walls lowered their gaze in silent dread.
"Victor Van Dorn," Ronan repeated softly, the name tasting like dry ash in his mouth.
He released his grip on Kane’s throat. Kane collapsed onto the concrete, coughing and gasping for air, clutching his bruised neck with trembling hands.
Ronan reached down, picked up the aluminum briefcase, and closed the latches with two crisp, metallic snaps. He handed the case to Dominic.
"Take Kane to the cellar beneath Pier 44," Ronan ordered, not sparing a backward glance at the broken handler. "Put him in the room beside Dacre’s old cell. Let him wait until morning."
"And Victor Van Dorn, Don Ronan?" Dominic asked, his voice dark with lethal anticipation.
Ronan pulled his heavy overcoat tighter around his shoulders, walking slowly toward the open warehouse door where the autumn wind was whipping off the East River.
"Victor sent me twelve percent of his logistics routes this morning as an apology," Ronan said, his voice flat, steady, and carrying the promise of total war. "Call the captains from Brooklyn and Manhattan. Tell them to bring the heavy armor to the Van Dorn estate in Westchester before dawn."
May you like
He stopped at the threshold, looking out over the dark water toward the glittering towers of the city.
"Victor wanted to play with Mateo’s blood," Ronan whispered into the night. "Now he will drown in his own."
