Chapter 4 - The Queens Waterfront Reckoning
The industrial fringe of Long Island City smelled of diesel exhaust, burning motor oil, and wet gravel.
Low-hanging grey fog rolled off the East River, swallowing the tops of the metal scrap yards.
The auto-body repair shop sat at the end of a dead-end street lined with rusted shipping containers.
A hand-painted sign hanging crookedly over the garage door read Precision Auto & Collision.
There was nothing precise about it.
Behind the corrugated steel walls sat the most lucrative illegal poker den and money-laundering depot in Queens.
I pulled my armored black Mercedes sedan into the alley directly behind the main bay door.
The engine died with a quiet, velvet hum.
Marco sat in the passenger seat, quietly screwing an eight-inch titanium suppressor onto the barrel of his Glock.
“There are two lookouts on the roof,” Marco observed, glancing up through the rain-streaked windshield.
“And at least three guards inside the office with Valentin.”
“The lookouts are watching the main avenue,” I replied, checking the magazine of my Kimber.
“They are expecting police cruisers or rival gang vans.”
“They are not expecting a two-man execution squad.”
I stepped out into the damp chill of the morning air.
My polished Italian leather shoes crunched softly against the broken gravel.
We moved along the blind spot of the building toward the heavy steel fire exit at the rear.
Marco produced a set of heavy hydraulic spreaders from his leather kit bag.
He seated the hardened steel jaws into the frame of the fire door and squeezed the hand pump twice.
The heavy lock sheared off with a muffled metallic snap that sounded no louder than a dry branch breaking.
We stepped inside.
The interior was lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that cast a sickly yellow glow over half-stripped luxury sedans.
Three mechanics in grease-stained coveralls were working near an engine lift.
Before any of them could even wipe their hands on a rag, Marco closed the distance with terrifying speed.
He struck the first mechanic across the jaw with the heavy suppressor, sending him sprawling into an oil pan.
The second man reached for a pipe wrench from his tool chest.
I closed my fingers around his windpipe, drove him backward against a metal locker, and drove my knee into his diaphragm.
The man slid down the sheet metal, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The third worker raised his hands instantly, trembling like a leaf in an autumn wind.
“Where is Valentin?” I whispered, my thumb resting over my holstered weapon.
The mechanic pointed a shaking, grease-covered finger toward the reinforced steel door of the second-floor office.
“Up... upstairs,” the man stammered.
“He’s counting the take from the poker game.”
“Stay on the floor,” I instructed calmly.
“If you reach for a phone before I walk back down those stairs, my friend will put a hole through your knee.”
We ascended the metal stairs without a sound.
Through the frosted glass window of the upper office, I could see two bulky silhouettes standing near a desk.
A loud, grating laugh drifted through the door.
“The boss should have seen her face,” a man’s voice boasted from inside.
“She started crying about her sick mother.”
“I told her Dominic Castellano could buy her mother a gold casket.”
That voice was all the confirmation I needed.
I did not bother turning the brass doorknob.
I kicked the center of the heavy wood door directly beside the deadbolt.
The frame exploded inward with a deafening splinter of pine and torn screws.
The two armed guards standing near the door reached for the pistols tucked into their waistbands.
Marco fired two suppressed rounds in a fraction of a second.
The double-tap struck the first guard cleanly through his right kneecap.
The second guard was hit in the shoulder, his weapon clattering harmlessly across the linoleum floor.
Both men collapsed screaming in agony.
Behind the heavy oak desk sat Valentin Drake.
He was a mountain of a man with a shaved skull, a broken boxer’s nose, and broad, brutal shoulders.
He wore a black leather vest over a sleeveless grey undershirt.
Coiled tightly around his thick right wrist was the ink of a venomous black viper, its fangs stretching down into his thumb.
Valentin stared at me in absolute shock.
His heavy revolver sat on top of a stack of hundred-dollar bills three inches from his fingers.
He made a desperate dive for the gun.
I covered the ten feet between us before his fingers could even close around the checkered grip.
I slammed the palm of my left hand down onto his outstretched wrist, pinning the serpent tattoo against the wood.
With my right hand, I drove the heavy steel muzzle of my Kimber directly into the center of his teeth.
The sickening crunch of shattering enamel echoed through the small office.
Valentin choked on his own broken teeth and blood, his eyes bulging with sheer terror.
“Do not move,” I said in a whisper that was softer than a breeze.
“If you twitch a single muscle, Valentin, I will pull this trigger.”
“And nobody in this room will ever be able to put your skull back together.”
Marco stepped behind the desk, kicked the fallen revolver into the corner, and zip-tied the two wounded guards.
He then closed the shattered office door and pulled down the vinyl blinds.
I slowly eased the pressure of the gun barrel against Valentin’s mouth, allowing him to spit blood onto the money.
“Castellano...” Valentin wheezed, his thick chest heaving against the desk.
“You’re crazy...”
“Kolov will skin you alive for this...”
“Kolov is sitting in his fortified penthouse in Brighton Beach waiting for me to surrender,” I said calmly.
“He thinks I am a businessman who hides behind corporate lawyers.”
I reached into my pocket, drew out Emma’s cracked silver watch, and laid it gently on the desk between his hands.
Valentin’s gaze flickered to the bent metal bracelet.
The arrogant smirk on his swollen face began to dissolve into cold dread.
“Do you recognize that watch, Valentin?” I asked.
“It was just a girl, man!” Valentin snarled, though his voice had lost its bravado.
“She was just a maid!”
“She was nobody!”
I seized his broken wrist with both hands and twisted it sharply against the grain of the joint.
A sharp, sickening pop echoed through the room.
Valentin screamed, a high-pitched wail of agony that rattled the window glass.
“She is a member of my household,” I corrected him, leaning down until my eyes were inches from his face.
“She wore my crest.”
“In my world, the girl who sweeps my floor carries the exact same weight as the general who commands my docks.”
“You struck her four times in the face.”
“You fractured her ribs while she was lying helpless in the rain.”
“Now, you are going to tell me what I want to know, or Marco is going to remove that serpent tattoo with a blowtorch.”
Valentin swallowed hard, his skin turning a sickly shade of grey.
He had terrorized street dealers and loan sharks for twenty years, but he had never faced a man with eyes as dead as mine.
“What do you want?” he whimpered, clutching his dislocated wrist against his ribs.
“Kolov didn't pick Emma Carter by accident,” I stated, keeping my tone ice-cold.
“She worked erratic hours.”
“She left through a private rear service gate that is not visible from the main avenue.”
“Nobody on the outside knew her shift schedule.”
“Who gave you her timetable, Valentin?”
Valentin shook his head frantically.
“I don't know, I swear to God!”
Marco stepped forward, drawing a heavy tactical knife from his boot.
“Wait! Wait!” Valentin shrieked, backing his chair against the wall until the wheels dug into the plaster.
“It was an envelope!”
“It came to the club yesterday afternoon!”
“A courier dropped it off with three thousand dollars cash and her picture!”
“Whose signature was on the envelope?” I demanded.
“There wasn't a signature!” Valentin cried, tears of pure terror cutting through the blood on his beard.
“Just an embossed stamp!”
“A gold stamp with the letter C!”
Silence fell over the room once more.
A heavy, suffocating silence that made the air feel thin.
Marco stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting toward me with sudden dread.
The gold stamp with the letter C was not a common street mark.
It was the personal wax seal used exclusively by the senior board members of the Castellano Family Trust.
There were only four people in the entire world who had access to that seal.
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And three of them were sitting in my corporate headquarters on Park Avenue.
Someone in my own inner circle had handed that innocent girl to Kolov’s wolves.
