Chapter 7: The Trap at Pier 42**
The rain began to fall as dusk settled over the industrial harbor. Pier 42 was a wasteland of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and the rhythmic sloshing of polluted waves against wooden pilings.
Inside Warehouse B, Clara paced nervously on high heels, a designer trench coat buttoned tightly against the damp chill. Richard Sterling stood over an open steel trunk, meticulously stacking heavy gold bars.
""What's taking the captain so long?"" Clara snapped, checking her diamond watch. ""Vance isn't answering his phone. Vincent might have gone to the authorities already.""
""Relax,"" Sterling grunted, slamming the trunk lid shut. ""Vance knows if he talks, his career is the least of his worries. And Vincent is too pathetic to do anything fast. The man spent three years wiping your chin and crying over your legs. He’s probably curled up in a ball in his penthouse.""
""You don't know him,"" Clara muttered, shivering. ""Yesterday, in the park... his eyes were different. He looked right through me.""
""He's a broken rich boy,"" Sterling sneered, racking the slide of a black semi-automatic pistol and tucking it into his waistband. ""And even if he figures it out, we’re on the water in twenty minutes.""
Suddenly, the warehouse floodlights flickered and died.
The entire cavernous room was plunged into deep, suffocating darkness, broken only by the distant yellow glow of the harbor lamps outside.
""What the hell?"" Sterling drew his weapon, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. ""Frank! Check the breaker!""
Silence answered him.
Then, from the far end of the warehouse, the heavy iron loading doors groaned open. Footsteps echoed across the concrete—measured, calm, and heavy.
May you like
A silhouette stepped through the rain mist into the warehouse. It was Vincent.
---
