Chapter 19 - The Battle of the North Bank
Saturday night brought a heavy,
icy rain that swept across the Detroit River,
turning the abandoned industrial sector into a dark labyrinth of rusted steel and looming shadows.
The old North Bank steel refinery sat like a silent beast against the riverfront,
its massive iron towers shrouded in thick fog.
At eleven o'clock,
three silent,
blackened speedboats glided up to the refinery’s private docks.
Fifty elite mercenaries dressed in dark tactical gear stepped onto the wet wooden planks,
led by General Viktor Kross,
a ruthless former special forces operative hired by Don Marcello Rossi.
Kross checked his handheld receiver,
which showed a pulsing red signal inside the central hall of the refinery.
"The tracking beacon is stationary,"
Kross whispered into his communicator,
his voice harsh and confident.
"The girl and Moretti’s primary security detail are inside."
"Move in,"
"kill everyone except the girl,"
"and load her onto the boats."
The fifty mercenaries moved swiftly through the broken iron gates,
entering the massive,
cavernous interior of the steel refinery.
The air smelled of rust,
old oil,
and rain.
At the center of the vast hall stood a single wooden chair beneath a hanging light,
where a small bag containing the active tracking beacon sat completely alone.
Kross stopped dead in his tracks,
his eyes widening in sudden,
horrified realization.
"It’s a trap!"
Kross roared,
turning around.
"Fallback to the boats!"
Before a single mercenary could reach the exits,
massive steel blast doors slammed shut with deafening thuds,
locking all three major exits instantly!
Blinding floodlights mounted high on the steel rafters erupted,
illuminating the entire refinery hall in brilliant,
unforgiving light.
From the high catwalks above,
over one hundred heavily armed Moretti enforcers appeared,
their weapons trained directly down on Kross’s trapped mercenaries.
At the center upper platform stood Lorenzo Moretti,
wearing his dark wool coat,
his tall frame towering over the scene like an untouchable god of war.
Standing beside him was Emily,
holding a tactical communications radio,
watching the battlefield with calm,
unflinching eyes.
"Viktor Kross,"
Lorenzo’s voice boomed through the refinery’s public address system,
sounding like thunder rolling across the iron hall.
"You entered my city under the orders of a coward in Chicago."
"Drop your weapons,"
"or my men will turn this hall into your tomb."
Kross looked up at the catwalks,
seeing the red laser sights covering every inch of his men's bodies.
He knew there was no victory,
no escape,
and no hope.
Screaming in rage,
Kross threw his assault rifle onto the concrete floor,
followed immediately by all fifty of his mercenaries,
who raised their hands in complete,
humiliating surrender.
Dante led a tactical squad down to disarm the mercenaries,
binding Kross in heavy iron restraints and dragging him up to the central platform where Lorenzo and Emily waited.
Kross panted,
glaring up at Lorenzo with bitter,
bloodshot eyes.
"Rossi will never stop,
Moretti!"
Kross spat violently.
"He has billions!"
"He will send a hundred more men!"
Emily stepped forward,
looking down at the captured commander with an expression of quiet,
supreme dominance.
"Rossi won't send anyone else,
General,"
Emily said softly,
holding up a tablet showing live financial feeds.
"While you were walking into our trap,"
"our legal teams and international private operatives seized every offshore asset,"
"shipping vessel,"
"and bank account Rossi used to finance your contract."
"As of ten minutes ago,"
"Marcello Rossi is completely bankrupt,"
"his own captains have stripped him of his title,"
"and he is currently fleeing Chicago to avoid federal indictment."
Kross stared at the young woman in utter shock,
his mouth hanging open,
unable to comprehend how a teenager had dismantled an entire syndicate empire in a single night.
Lorenzo laid his heavy hand on Emily’s shoulder,
looking down at Kross with cold,
final judgment.
"Go back to Chicago,
Kross,"
Lorenzo commanded softly.
"Tell whoever remains in that city that Detroit belongs to the Moretti family."
May you like
"And tell them,"
"that my heir is far more dangerous than I am."
