Chapter 16 - The Counterstrike
The rain showed no signs of letting up as Christian’s men zip-tied Julian Barrett and his crew, loading them into the back of three unmarked vans destined for the federal courthouse downtown. By 2:30 AM, the emergency raid on Pier 14 was complete, executed without a single bullet fired—a clean, surgical strike that severed the Barrett family's grip on the city forever.
However, as I stood on the wet concrete apron of the pier watching the taillights disappear into the mist, my instincts refused to settle. Arthur Barrett was a vicious old dog who had survived five decades in the brutal world of corporate and maritime crime. He wouldn't risk his eldest son and his remaining syndicate assets on a single tunnel operation without a diversionary tactic.
"Christian," I barked, turning swiftly toward my lieutenant. "Where is Arthur Barrett right now?"
Christian checked his tactical tablet, tapping the encrypted surveillance feed. "Our surveillance team in Beacon Hill reported his limousine parked outside his private estate twenty minutes ago. The lights in his study are still on."
"Did anyone personally confirm visual contact with Arthur?" I pressed, my heart suddenly accelerating with a sickening spike of adrenaline.
Christian’s fingers froze over the screen. He tapped into the radio channel for the Beacon Hill surveillance van. "Team Two, this is Lead. Give me an immediate visual confirmation on Arthur Barrett. Over."
Static crackled across the speaker for five agonizing seconds before a breathless, panicked voice broke through. "Lead! We've been compromised! The limousine outside the estate is empty—it's running on a dummy remote loop! Barrett left the property through the underground service alley two hours ago in an armored suburban! We lost his transponder near the Back Bay!"
"Back Bay," I repeated, the world around me slowing to a dead crawl.
The tunnel at Pier 14 was never the real target. Julian was a sacrifice—a disposable pawn sent to draw me and my primary security force away from the brownstone. Arthur Barrett’s real objective had always been the four boys and the woman who had humiliated his family name.
"To the cars! Move!" I roared, sprinting toward my armored SUV.
I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, the powerful engine roaring to life as the tires screeched against the slick wet asphalt of the pier. Behind me, four escort vehicles tore through the gates, sirens blaring silently through the rain-slicked streets of downtown Boston.
I grabbed the dashboard communicator, dialing the secure private line to the brownstone. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Elena, pick up the damn phone," I pleaded through gritted teeth, swerving wildly past a row of midnight delivery trucks on Atlantic Avenue.
Finally, the line clicked open. But it wasn't Elena's sweet voice that answered.
A raspy, arrogant laugh crackled through the speaker, followed by the muffled sound of shattered glass and distant shouting.
"Dominic, my boy," Arthur Barrett's cruel voice hissed into my ear. "You really should have married Sloane. She would have made such a lovely stepmother to your little litter. Don't worry about speeding through the rain... your wife has been extraordinarily hospitable."
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"If you lay a single finger on them, Arthur," I snarled, my vision turning completely crimson, "I will skin you alive in the middle of Boston Common."
"Come and see for yourself, Dominic," Barrett whispered, and severed the connection.
