Chapter 6 - The Shadow Behind the Syndicate
Warehouse 14 sat on the dilapidated edge of St. Jude’s Wharf, surrounded by rusting shipping containers and rotting timber piers that jutted out into the churning, black waters of the East River.
Rain lashed against the corrugated tin roof in a deafening roar. Inside the cavernous, damp warehouse, four heavily armed mercenaries employed by Cassian sat around an oil-drum fire, passing a bottle of cheap bourbon.
In the far corner, strapped to a rusty metal chair, sat Daniel Mercer.
He was barely recognizable. His once-athletic frame was hollowed out, his collarbones protruding sharply beneath a soiled hospital gown. His long, matted brown hair fell over sunken cheeks, and his wrists were covered in thick scabs from years of chemical restraints.
Yet, for the first time in nine long years, his eyes were clear.
The paralytic haze that had clouded his mind since he was twenty-one had finally lifted, burned away by the heroic efforts of a nurse who had secretly replaced his daily lethal injections with simple saline flushes.
"Drink up, boys," one of the mercenaries laughed, kicking Daniel’s chair so it rocked dangerously. "As soon as Cassian calls to confirm the wedding documents are signed, we dump this walking corpse into a concrete drum and roll him off the pier. Easiest half-million we ever made."
Daniel slowly lifted his chin. His vocal cords were dry and cracked from disuse, but his gaze held the unmistakable, lethal steel of the Mercer bloodline.
"Cassian... won't pay you," Daniel rasped, coughing weakly.
The mercenary sneered, stepping closer and blowing cigarette smoke into Daniel’s face. "Oh, the vegetable speaks! What did you say, pretty boy?"
"Cassian... never leaves witnesses," Daniel whispered, his cracked lips pulling into a faint, defiant smile. "And my brother... is already behind you."
The mercenary frowned, lowering his bottle. "What the hell are you talking—"
Before the man could finish his sentence, the heavy steel roll-up door of the warehouse blew inward with an apocalyptic BOOM.
A customized armored truck smashed straight through the barricade, sending steel beams and shattered concrete flying through the air. The shockwave threw two mercenaries against the wall, killing them instantly.
Before the smoke could clear, shadows poured into the gap.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Suppressed gunfire hummed through the damp air with terrifying speed. The third mercenary reached for his assault rifle, but a single round ripped through his collarbone, pinning him to the floor. The remaining mercenary panicked, grabbing Daniel from behind and pressing a snub-nosed revolver against Daniel’s temple.
"Back off!" the mercenary screamed into the blinding headlights of the armored truck. "Take one more step and I paint the wall with his brains!"
From the shadows beside the truck, a solitary figure emerged into the headlights.
Andrew walked slowly through the drifting smoke, completely unbothered by the gun pointed at his brother’s head. His trench coat billowed behind him, dripping rain onto the concrete. In his right hand, his Kimber .45 hung lazily at his side.
"You have five seconds to remove your hand from my brother," Andrew said.
The mercenary was hyperventilating, his hands shaking violently against Daniel’s skull. "I know who you are, Mercer! You don't scare me! Tell your dogs to drop their weapons, or he dies right now!"
Daniel looked past the trembling gun barrel. He locked eyes with his older brother for the first time in nine years.
A single tear cut through the dirt and grime on Daniel’s hollow cheek. "Andrew..." he whispered.
"I’m here, Danny," Andrew replied softly, his voice cracking with an agony he had buried for nearly a decade. "I’m right here."
"Drop the gun, Mercer!" the guard shrieked, cocking the revolver's hammer.
Andrew didn't drop his gun. Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
From sixty yards away, perched high in the rusted crossbeams of the warehouse ceiling, Marco pulled the trigger of his suppressed sniper rifle.
Thwip.
A high-caliber round took the mercenary directly through the center of his forehead. The man’s eyes went wide, his grip vanished, and he dropped straight backward onto the concrete like a sack of stones. The revolver clattered harmlessly away.
For three seconds, complete silence fell over Warehouse 14, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain on the tin roof.
Andrew dropped his weapon, broke into a dead sprint, and fell to his knees in front of the rusted metal chair.
With shaking hands, the most feared crime boss in New York sliced through the zip-ties with his tactical knife. The moment the bindings gave way, Daniel’s limp, emaciated body fell forward.
Andrew caught him against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms around his fragile younger brother. He buried his face into Daniel’s matted hair, weeping openly, his massive shoulders heaving with uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs.
"I’m sorry, Danny... God, I’m so sorry," Andrew choked out, rocking his brother back and forth on the cold concrete. "I looked everywhere. I thought you were dead. Forgive me... please forgive me..."
Daniel weakly lifted his trembling, scarred arm, wrapping his frail fingers around Andrew’s soaked collar.
"She saved me, Andrew," Daniel whispered against his brother’s ear, using the last ounce of his strength. "Clara... she risked everything. Cassian took her to the estate on the bluffs... the private chapel. He’s going to kill her the second she signs. Go... save her..."
Andrew gently pulled back, cupping Daniel’s gaunt face with both hands. He wiped away his own tears, his eyes turning from grieving brother back into the apex predator of the city.
"Marco!" Andrew roared without breaking eye contact with Daniel. "Get the medical team in here right now! If my brother's pulse drops by a single beat, I’ll have every doctor in the city executed!"
"Understood, Don Andrew!"
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Andrew stood up, his jaw set in stone. He picked up his Kimber .45 from the floor and racked the slide.
"Cassian wanted a wedding," Andrew whispered into the darkness. "Let’s give him a funeral."
