Chapter 14 - The Ambush at the Docks
While Clara was finding peace on the harbor terrace, Marcus Thorne was descending into the darkest, most desperate corners of the Boston underworld.
Stripped of his law license, evicted from his Back Bay condo by Moretti’s holding companies, and facing federal grand jury subpoenas for his past corporate embezzlement, Marcus had become a cornered, rabid animal. His broken right wrist was encased in a crude plaster cast he had obtained at a free urgent care clinic; his bespoke clothes were stained and unwashed.
At 4:00 a.m., in the backroom of a dingy, smoke-filled pub in Charlestown, Marcus sat across from Tommy Callahan—the volatile, hyper-violent leader of the Callahan Irish mob, the only remaining underworld faction in New England that had refused to bend the knee to Gabriel Moretti’s syndicate.
“Why the hell should I listen to a disbarred corporate lawyer with a broken arm?” Callahan sneered, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the sawdust-covered floor as his four heavily armed lieutenants cleaned their automatic weapons on the pool table.
“Because I know Gabriel Moretti’s corporate infrastructure!” Marcus hissed, leaning across the sticky table, his eyes wide with manic, vengeful desperation. “I spent five years structuring the legal leases for the waterfront shipping terminals! I know which dry docks his international cargo containers come through, and more importantly, I know his personal security rotation!”
Callahan’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint appearing in his cold blue eyes. “Keep talking.”
“Tomorrow night at midnight, Moretti is personally supervising the arrival of a high-value maritime container at Dry Dock 4 in the North End,” Marcus revealed, laying a hand-drawn map of the seaport security grid onto the table. “He only brings his underboss, Russo, and two personal enforcers to those inspections to avoid drawing federal attention. If your men hit Dry Dock 4 with automatic weapons at midnight, you can wipe out Moretti’s entire leadership command in one strike and take over the Boston waterfront forever.”
Callahan picked up the map, studying the access roads and camera blind spots with growing greed. “And what do you want in return for this little tip, counselor? A cut of the cargo?”
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“I don't care about the cargo!” Marcus snarled, his face twisting into a mask of pure, obsessive malice. “When Moretti is dead on the asphalt, I want his penthouse security codes. I want the girl. I want Clara Hughes brought to me alive so I can finish what I started at that restaurant.”
Callahan grinned, revealing a row of yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “Deal, lawyer. Tomorrow midnight, Gabriel Moretti gets retired permanently.”
