The call came at 11 PM on a Friday.
Adam was in bed, Sandra asleep beside him. The phone buzzed once, twice, three times. He grabbed it, saw Marcus's name on the screen.
“Mr. Kosta. I need help.”
The kid's voice was tight, scared. Adam sat up.
“Where are you?”
“The Docks. Near Pier 7. Some men followed me. They said they knew my father. They said I had to come with them.”
“Don't move. I'm on my way.”
---
Adam dressed in thirty seconds. Jeans, boots, jacket. Gun in the waistband. He wrote a note for Sandra, left it on the pillow, and slipped out the door.
The streets were empty. He drove fast, running red lights, his headlights cutting through the dark.
Pier 7 was a maze of warehouses and shipping containers. He parked a block away and walked the rest, his hand on his gun.
“Marcu
