The first showed Elena bound to a mast, her blonde hair tangled and hanging, her face white with fear. The second was worse: Stella locked in an iron cage, tiny hands clinging to the bars, her little face wet with tears.
Then a shaky video came through. The camera focused on Elena and inched closer. I saw every detail: the raw redness at the corners of her eyes, her cracked, pale lips. A hand with red nail polish yanked into frame, grabbed Elena's hair, and jerked it back. Elena shut her eyes against the pain, biting her lip without a sound.
"See that, Igor?" Natasha's voice rang through the clip, sharp and unhinged. "Look at your woman now. And —"
The camera swung to Stella. The little girl screamed, raw and desperate, "Mommy! I want Mommy! Daddy, save us!"
"Your daughter," Natasha said, coldly. "She's been crying, calling for you. Pathetic."
Elena's voice, hoarse and desperate, pleaded, "Don't touch my daughter! Natasha!"
Natasha laughed — a high, crazed sound.
"Remember, Igor. Two hours. You come alone to Pier 76. One minute late and I'll let you listen to them scream."
The video cut. I stared at the dark screen. My lungs burned. My blood felt like it was boiling. Every nerve screamed to charge onto that freighter and rip Natasha's head off.
I forced myself to breathe. Losing control wouldn't save them. Artyom already knew something was wrong and waited for orders.
"Artyom," I said, cold and precise, each word measured. "Pull up detailed maps and satellite imagery of Pier 76. I want every inch. We're planning a rescue."
"Yes, Don!" Artyom snatched the tablet, and his fingers flew. Within a minute, high-def satellite images filled the screen.
I leaned over. An abandoned industrial pier, three vast warehouses, a rusting freighter tied up alongside. Container yards fanned out around it. To the east, a ten-story derelict office block.
"There." I pointed to the office. "Sniper positions. About three hundred meters out with a clear view of the deck."
Artyom marked it.
"Container yards," I said, dragging my finger across the screen. "East and west. Assault teams can hide there and split to encircle."
"Understood."
"Water team enters here," I added, indicating the slip on the other side. "Cut off any sea escape. If they try to run by boat, sink it."
"Yes, Don."
"Follow my orders to the letter."
Artyom nodded and pinged the men we'd left in Italy. I opened the weapons locker, checked a loaded Glock 19, and slid it into my lower back. A brand-new Beretta Nano went to an ankle holster on my right leg, hidden beneath my pant cuff. A Russian knife and a low-profile blade slipped into my sleeves, one on each side.
Everything was ready. The plane began its descent. Fifty minutes on my watch. Artyom said the car was waiting at the private airfield in New York. We touched down, taxied, and the cabin door sighed open into coldnight air.
A black Bentley waited on the tarmac. My men opened the door as I stepped down.
I drove hard through the night. The city blurred into streaks of light. My mind ran through scenarios — Natasha had snapped; Salvatore wanted my East Coast arms and laundering routes. Two predators had aligned: one to ruin me, the other to take my territory. Both held my family.
A message from Artyom: [People in position, waiting for your order.]
I clicked the phone to silent and slipped it into my pocket.
I parked about five hundred meters from Pier 76 and walked the rest of the way. The wind smelled of salt and rust. My shoes struck cracked concrete in a steady rhythm.
Every step brought me closer to Elena and Stella — and to the knives at my throat.
The freighter loomed like a sleeping beast under the moon, rust mottling its hull. Shadows moved on deck; rifle metal flashed in the light. A gangplank led up. I took it.
Five big men on deck swung AK-47s to bear the moment I stepped up.
