Detective Mark Cain didn’t do sympathy. Not for anyone. Not anymore.
The rain hammered the cracked pavement of Eastbridge, neon signs
flickering above closed storefronts like tired eyes. Cain’s trench coat was
soaked through, but he barely noticed. The city was a cesspool, and tonight he
was diving headfirst into its darkest depths.
“Cain!” The voice was gravel, low and urgent.
Mark spun, gun drawn. His partner, Ricky Torres, lay slumped against a dumpster, blood seeping through his ribs like ink in water.
“Ricky!” Mark knelt fast, fingers pressing into the wound. Ricky coughed, eyes wide and glassy.
“They got...the boss. Ortiz,” Ricky gasped. “Empire’s...falling.”
Mark’s jaw clenched. Ortiz was the kingpin, a ghost in the underworld who kept the city’s criminal veins pumping. Ricky’s killer wasn’t just some street thug, this was a message.
“Hold on, damn it!” Mark’s voice cracked with desperation.
But Ricky’s hand slipped from his own. His breath stopped. His eyes fixed on Mark, pleading silently for justice.
Mark stood, swallowing the lump in his throat, eyes burning cold. He wasn’t just going to find the killer. He was going to destroy every bastard who touched Ricky.
* * * * * * *
Three hours later, Mark sat in his crumbling apartment, phone pressed to his ear.
“This is Cain,” he growled.
The voice on the other end was clipped. “We traced the hit. Ortiz’s empire, Zane’s crew.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. Zane Vega, Ortiz’s right hand turned rival. If anyone wanted Ortiz dead, it was him.
“Where?” Mark demanded.
“Old shipyard. Tonight.”
Mark hung up, loaded his Glock, and headed out. The rain had stopped. A cold fog rolled in, thick like a blanket over the docks.
* * * * * * *
The shipyard was a maze of rusted containers and silent cranes. Mark moved like a shadow, silent but deadly. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut through the fog.
“Freeze! Police!” a voice shouted.
Mark ducked behind a container, spotting a dozen men with guns. They weren’t cops. Zane’s crew.
Gunfire erupted.
Mark dropped low, firing bursts of precision shots, taking two men down. The rest scattered, shouting orders.
Mark sprinted forward, adrenaline drowning out pain as bullets grazed his arm. He reached a stack of crates, hearing footsteps approaching fast.
“Cain!” A familiar voice.
It was Lily, Ricky’s sister and Mark’s only ally in this war.
“Got a plan?” she hissed, gun ready.
“Zane’s inside the warehouse. Ortiz’s killers. We end this tonight,” Mark said, voice steel.
They moved together, slipping inside the warehouse.
* * * * * * *
Inside, the darkness was thick, smells of oil and decay heavy in the air.
Mark spotted movement near the shipping crates, Zane’s silhouette, smoking a cigarette.
“Zane!” Mark barked. “Your game’s over.”
Zane turned, smirk curling. “Cain. Didn’t expect you this fast. You’re out of your league.”
Mark didn’t reply. He fired, the shot cracking through the stillness.
Zane dodged, pulling a pistol. The warehouse erupted into a brutal gunfight.
Mark and Lily took cover, exchanging fire, inching closer.
Zane fired wildly, forcing Mark to dive behind a steel pillar. Mark’s mind raced, one shot, one kill.
He rolled, fired, Zane’s hand went limp, cigarette dropped.
But Zane wasn’t done. He lunged, tackling Mark to the ground, fists flying.
Mark took the hits, gritting teeth, then slammed his knee hard into Zane’s gut. The air whooshed out.
With one last shove, Mark pinned Zane, cuffing him.
* * * * * * *
Outside, sirens wailed. Backup arriving.
Mark stared down at Zane, who spat blood, sneered, “This isn’t over.”
Mark’s voice was low, deadly calm. “It is for you.”
He looked to Lily.
“Ricky’s death ends tonight. Ortiz’s empire is finished.”
Lily nodded, tears in her eyes.
Mark turned, walking into the flashing lights, rain beginning to fall again.
Justice was silent. Relentless. Complete.
THE END
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