Chapter 5 - The Purge of West RiverAt 11:30 PM, six black armored SUVs pulled up to the heavy iron gates of the Sloan Import Terminal on the West River.
Patrick Sloan—a ruthless fifty-year-old crime lord who had spent six years trying to push his synthetic narcotics network into Manhattan—sat inside his glass executive office overlooking the dark docks, surrounded by twenty heavily armed mercenaries.
He was pouring a crystal glass of whiskey, expecting a phone call from Mason Rusk confirming my death at the charity gala.
BOOM!
The heavy iron gates of the terminal didn't open—they were breached by my lead armored Maybach, tearing the metal doors off their hinges in a shower of sparks and pulverized concrete.
My tactical teams flooded the dockyard, their suppressed automatic weapons cutting down Sloan’s mercenaries in a rapid, ninety-second exchange of lethal fire.
I stepped out of the Maybach wearing a tailored dark wool coat over my tuxedo.
Walking beside me, wearing her emerald silk dress beneath a dark cashmere overcoat, carrying an encrypted laptop, was Clara.
We walked up the grand metal staircase into Sloan’s executive office.
Patrick Sloan dropped his whiskey glass. CRASH!
The crystal shattered against the concrete floor, spattering amber liquid across his shoes, as he stared at me in total, speech-bound horror.
"Vale...?!" Sloan stammered out, his face paper-white. "How... how are you alive?! Mason said—"
"Mason is at the bottom of the East River, Patrick," I interrupted smoothly, stepping into the room, resting my hands comfortably in my coat pockets.
Clara stepped up beside me, placing her laptop flat on Sloan's mahogany desk, turning the screen toward his pale face.
"As of eleven-fifteen tonight, Mr. Sloan," Clara announced cleanly, her voice holding an absolute, sovereign authority, "every commercial lease, shipping license, and offshore account belonging to West River Logistics has been permanently repossessed by the Vale Master Trust."
Sloan stared at the screen, his jaw sagging open as he saw his entire life's work liquidated in real-time.
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"You... you little accountant..." Sloan whimpered, falling back into his chair in total ruin.
"Donna Clara Vale," I corrected deadpan, drawing my sidearm. "And today... your operation dies."
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