Rory hands us earpieces—small, wireless buds. "I'll be on channel. I've got satellite imagery of the pier district queued up. If anything moves within a two-block radius, you'll know."
The drive is fast.
Alessandro takes the wheel of the Audi. He drives efficiently, anticipating the traffic, checking the mirrors. The waterfront materializes through the windshield—cranes, containers, the skeletal silhouettes of loading infrastructure against a navy sky.
Pier 11 is at the end of a service road that dead-ends at the water. The warehouse is a concrete block with loading bays on the north face and a single pedestrian entrance on the east.
No lights. No vehicles. The parking area is empty. The chain-link gate stands open—padlock hanging from the hasp, unlocked.
"Gate's open," I say.
"I see it."
"That's not how you left it."
"No."
We park fifty meters back, behind a stack of shipping containers. I pull the Glock 17 from my waistband. Check the magazine. Seventeen rounds plus one in the chamber.
"Rory," Alessandro says into the earpiece. "Status?"
Static. Then Rory’s voice, clear in my ear. "Satellite shows two vehicles parked on the south side of the warehouse. Out of your sight line. They weren't there six hours ago."
Two vehicles. A cleanup crew doesn't need two vehicles for an arson job. Two vehicles is a team. A reception committee.
"It's a trap," I say again.
Alessandro’s hand is on the door handle. His jaw is set. The Prince is making a calculation that the Reaper has already resolved.
"The records?—"
"Are not worth your life."
The words come out with a force that surprises me. It isn't operational. It isn't tactical. It’s raw.
He looks at me.
"Fifteen minutes," he says. "We assess from the east entrance. If the interior is compromised, we pull back."
We move.
The east entrance is a steel door with a keypad. Alessandro enters the code. The lock disengages with a beep. The door opens onto a corridor—concrete, unlit, the air cold with industrial refrigeration.
I go first. Glock up. The corridor extends thirty feet to a second door.
Beyond it, the main storage floor.
It is dark. Rows of shelving—industrial steel, floor to ceiling—stretch into the gloom. The boxes on the shelves contain thirty years of Falcone history. The refrigeration units hum, a low, constant drone.
The space feels occupied.
I can feel them. The displacement of air. The minute sounds of bodies holding position. The silence that isn't empty.
"Contact," I breathe into the earpiece.
They come from three directions.
The shelving rows funnel the approach. Three men from the north row. Two from the south.
