A CRIME SYNDICATE BOSS WATCHED A SEVEN-YEAR-OLD BOY COUNT COINS FOR MILK AND APPLES, BUT WHEN HE SAW HIS SICK MOTHER WAITING OUTSIDE, HE REALIZED THE MAN WHO HAD BEEN HUNTING THEM WAS SOMEONE HE SHOULD HAVE BURIED FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain had returned, a torrential downpour that turned Pier 40 into a slick, shadowed wasteland of rusted shipping containers and crashing waves. Lightning illuminated the sky in jagged flashes of white.

Roman stood alone at the edge of the pier, the wind whipping his long coat around his legs. He didn't have his submachine gun. He only carried his custom 1911 pistol, tucked into his waistband.

At exactly midnight, a lone pair of headlights cut through the darkness. A battered sedan parked fifty yards away. Marcus Vance stepped out.

He looked nothing like the polished cartel boss of five years ago. He looked ragged, wild-eyed, gripping a heavy revolver.

“Where is it, Roman?!” Marcus shouted over the sound of the crashing waves, keeping his gun aimed squarely at Roman’s chest.

Roman pulled the small hard drive from his pocket, holding it up in the rain. “Right here. The keys to your pathetic kingdom.”

Marcus took a step forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Toss it to me. And tell me where my wife is. She’s mine.”

“She was never yours,” Roman spat, his voice carrying the weight of five years of grief and fury. “She was a prisoner you kept in a cage. And my brother was a good man who trusted you.”

“Mateo was weak!” Marcus screamed, his face contorting in madness. “And you’re weak for caring about a broken woman and a bastard child! Give me the drive!”

Roman didn't toss it. He dropped it onto the wet concrete and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, shattering the plastic and pulverizing the memory chip into useless dust.

Marcus stared in absolute horror. “NO!”