Chapter 13: The Warehouse Strike
Two months later. Miami.
Julian had tracked the syndicate's money through a labyrinth of shell companies to a massive import-export warehouse on the docks. It was the nerve center for The Red Ribbon’s East Coast operations. Victoria was there, overseeing a new shipment.
Under the cover of a torrential downpour, Julian bypassed the security grid. He moved through the shadows of the shipping containers, systematically taking out the perimeter guards with suppressed shots and lethal, silent takedowns. He was a force of nature, fueled by the memory of the dog bowl and the bruises on his daughter's arms.
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He breached the main office. The glass shattered as Julian swung through the skylight, landing on the conference table. The room erupted in chaos. Bodyguards drew their weapons, but Julian was faster. The room was a flurry of muzzle flashes, shattering glass, and screams. Within thirty seconds, the six guards were dead on the floor.
Julian stepped off the table, his weapon raised, the laser sight resting squarely between the eyes of the woman cowering behind the desk.
