CRIMSON VENDETTA

The Warehouse

Two days passed before James could move freely again.

He spent them in his apartment, windows dark, curtains drawn, living on canned food and cheap whiskey. He didn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Detective Morrow's glassy stare, the crimson grin across his throat, the blood on his hands.

He saw Tessa's face in the darkness, heard her voice calling his name.

*Where are you, Tessa? Are you alive? Are you part of this?*

The questions ate at him like acid. He'd called her number a dozen times, each call going straight to voicemail. He'd checked the police reports, the news coverage, the whispers on the street.

Nothing. Tessa Rodriguez had vanished.

James pushed the thought aside and focused on what he could control. He'd used Sal's burner phone to call in favors, to check on his crew, to make sure the feds weren't closing in on him. The response had been mixed—some men were scared, some were loyal, some were already circling like sharks smelling blood in the water.

He needed to get back to the Warehouse. He needed to see the scene for himself, to find anything the cleaners might have missed. And he needed to do it without anyone knowing.

That meant going through Troy.

---

Troy's apartment was in the Slums, three blocks past where the streetlights stopped working and the sidewalks turned to cracked concrete. The building was a five-story walk-up that smelled like mildew and desperation, the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone kept their heads down.

James knocked on the door in the pattern they'd agreed on—three quick, two slow, three quick. The door opened a crack, revealing a single dark eye.

"James."

Troy pulled the door open. He was young, twenty-three, with the kind of hungry look that came from growing up with nothing. He'd been on the streets since he was fourteen, running packages for the Morettis, working his way up from lookout to soldier. James had taken him under his wing two years ago, seen something in him that reminded him of himself.

"Get your coat." James stepped inside, scanning the room out of habit. "We're going for a walk."

"A walk." Troy's voice was flat, cautious. "At midnight. In the Slums."

"You want to ask questions, or you want to come with me?"

Troy grabbed his jacket. "Where are we going?"

"The Warehouse."

The younger man's face went pale. "James, that place is crawling with cops. The feds have been there every day since—"

"Trust me." James met his eyes. "I know what I'm doing."

*You don't know anything. You're flying blind, and you know it. But you can't show weakness. Not now. Not ever.*

Troy nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's go."

---

They moved through the Harbor District like shadows.

The streets were quiet, the usual nightlife subdued by the presence of law enforcement. Every corner seemed to have a patrol car, every alley a pair of watchful eyes. The feds had turned the district into a fortress, searching for any trace of Detective Morrow's killer.

James led Troy through a series of back alleys, across a collapsed fence, through the basement of an abandoned fish market. It was a route he'd memorized years ago, when he was still a soldier, still learning the secrets of the district.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the alley behind the Warehouse.

"The back door's sealed," Troy whispered. "I checked yesterday. Welded shut."

"Front door?"

"Same. They've got the whole place locked down. If you want to get in, you're going to have to go through the roof."

James looked up. The warehouse was three stories tall, its roof a maze of ventilation shafts and rusted equipment. The fire escape on the north side had been cut away, but the pipes running up the wall looked sturdy enough.

"Can you climb that?"

Troy followed his gaze. "It's thirty feet of rusted pipe. I can climb anything."

"Good. Let's go."

---

The climb was harder than James remembered.

His injured leg was screaming by the time they reached the roof, the old bullet wound throbbing with every pulse. Troy had made it up in half the time, his young body moving like water, his hands finding holds that James couldn't even see.

They crouched behind a ventilation unit, catching their breath. The roof was covered in a layer of grime and bird droppings, the night air cold and damp.

"There." James pointed to a skylight near the center of the roof. "That's our way in."

Troy crept forward, his footsteps silent on the gravel. He peered down through the glass, his face going pale.

"James... there's someone in there."

"What?"

"Two people. They're searching the office."

James moved to join him, his heart hammering. He looked down through the skylight and felt the blood drain from his face.

*Vincent. And Vale.*

They were standing in the main office, going through the filing cabinet, their movements quick and methodical. Vale was holding a flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness. Vin was pulling out files, flipping through them, tossing them aside.

"Looking for something," James breathed. "Something they didn't want us to find."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

James moved along the roof, searching for another way in. The skylight was bolted from the inside, but the ventilation shaft on the south side was loose—the screws had rusted through years ago.

"Troy, come here."

They worked together, pulling the grate off the ventilation shaft, revealing a dark hole that dropped down into the warehouse. James peered inside, measuring the distance.

"I'll go first. Follow me down. Stay quiet, stay behind me, and if anything goes wrong—"

"You'll handle it." Troy's voice was steady. "I know."

James lowered himself into the shaft.

The drop was longer than he'd expected—fifteen feet of rusted metal, his hands scraping against the edges as he descended. He landed in a crouch, his legs absorbing the impact, and found himself in the storage room off the main floor.

The door was open. He could hear Vale and Vin's voices, low and urgent.

"—you sure it was him?" Vin's voice was tight, nervous. "You're absolutely sure?"

"I'm sure." Vale's voice was calm, controlled. "He was there. He saw the body. He knows."

"He doesn't remember anything. He said—"

"He said he was drugged. That's convenient. That's exactly what someone would say if they wanted to cover their tracks."

"He's not a killer, Vale. Not like that. Not a federal agent."

"Everyone's a killer, Vincent. It's just a matter of what they have to lose."

James moved to the door and peered through the crack. Vale was standing by the desk, his back to the door, his hands in his pockets. Vin was facing him, his face twisted with doubt.

"I've known James since he was a kid," Vin said. "I've seen him fight. I've seen him kill. But this—this isn't him. He wouldn't do something like this without a reason."

"Maybe he had a reason. Maybe Morrow had something on him. Maybe—"

"Maybe you're setting him up."

The accusation hung in the air. James felt his breath catch in his throat.

*Vin. You're standing up for me. You're asking the questions I need someone to ask.*

Vale turned slowly, his expression unreadable. "You want to repeat that?"

"I said maybe you're setting him up." Vin's voice was shaking, but he didn't back down. "You've always had it out for him. You've always wanted his position, his connections, his seat at the table. Maybe you thought this would be the perfect way to get rid of him."

"Vincent." Vale's voice was soft, dangerous. "You're my friend. You've been my friend for twenty years. But if you ever accuse me of something like that again—"

"Then tell me the truth. Tell me what really happened that night."

*Tell him, Vale. Tell him the truth.*

James watched, barely breathing, as Vale stepped closer to Vin. His hand came up, resting on Vin's shoulder, the gesture almost paternal.

"The truth," Vale said softly, "is that I'm trying to protect this family. I'm trying to keep us from tearing ourselves apart. And if I have to sacrifice one man to do it—even a man I respect as much as James—then I'll do it."

Vin's face went pale. "You're not saying—"

"I'm saying that sometimes, the right thing isn't the easy thing." Vale's grip tightened on Vin's shoulder. "I'm saying that you need to decide where your loyalty lies. With James. With the family. Or with yourself."

The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating.

Vin looked away. "I'm loyal to the family."

"Good." Vale stepped back, his smile returning. "Then you'll do what I ask. You'll keep an eye on James. You'll report back to me. And if he does anything suspicious—"

"He won't. He's not a threat."

"He's always a threat." Vale's voice was cold now, all pretense gone. "He's just not a threat you can see."

---

James pulled back from the door, his heart racing.

*Vale is using Vin. He's putting pressure on him, making him choose sides. And Vin... Vin is going to betray you. He's going to tell Vale everything.*

He needed to get out of here. He needed to warn Troy, to leave, to find another way to investigate without being caught.

But as he turned to go, his foot caught on a loose piece of metal.

The sound echoed through the storage room, sharp and unmistakable.

"Someone's here."

Vale's voice cut through the darkness. James heard him moving, heard Vin's footsteps following.

*Move. Now.*

James ran. He bolted through the storage room, through the main floor, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He could hear Vale shouting behind him, could hear Vin shouting back, the sounds of pursuit closing in.

"Troy! Go! Now!"

He saw Troy dropping from the ventilation shaft, his face pale with alarm. They ran for the emergency exit, the one that had been welded shut—

*It's not welded anymore.*

The bar had been cut through, the door swinging open onto the alley. James didn't have time to question it. He shoved the door open and ran.

They burst into the alley, their feet slamming against the concrete. James could hear Vale and Vin behind them, could hear their footsteps gaining.

"Split up!" James shouted. "I'll lead them away! Get to Sal's!"

"James—"

"*Go!*"

Troy ran, disappearing into the darkness of a side alley. James turned the other way, his leg screaming with every step, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

*Where are you going? There's nowhere to run. They know this district better than you do.*

He saw a gap in a chain-link fence and dove through, his shoulder scraping against the metal. He was in a construction site, half-finished buildings looming above him, piles of debris everywhere.

He ran through the site, his heart pounding, his lungs burning. He could hear Vale and Vin behind him, their footsteps echoing off the concrete.

*You can't keep running. You need to make a stand.*

James found a piece of rebar on the ground, heavy and cold in his hand. He crouched behind a concrete barrier, waiting, listening.

The footsteps grew closer. He could see shadows moving through the construction site, could hear Vale's voice calling out commands.

"Spread out. He's here somewhere. Find him."

*One chance. You have one chance.*

James waited until the shadows were close enough to touch. Then he lunged.

The rebar caught Vin in the shoulder, sending him sprawling. Vale spun around, his hand going for his gun—

James swung the rebar again. Vale blocked it with his forearm, the impact jarring through both of them. They struggled in the darkness, Vale's strength surprising for a man his age, his movements quick and practiced.

"Vin! Get up!" Vale shouted.

Vin was scrambling to his feet, his face a mask of pain. James pushed Vale away, stepped back, and ran.

*Through the construction site, across the street, into the maze of alleys. If you can lose them in the alleys—*

He ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his leg screamed and his vision blurred. He ran until he couldn't hear their footsteps anymore.

James collapsed in a doorway, his head in his hands, gasping for breath.

*They know you were there. They know you heard them. They're going to come for you.*

He forced himself to stand, to keep moving. He needed to get to Sal's. He needed to find Troy. He needed to figure out what to do next.

*But first...*

He pulled out the burner phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed the number Sal had given him.

*Blair Winslow. Westport Herald.*

It rang once, twice, three times.

"Hello?" A woman's voice, tired and suspicious. "Who is this?"

"Blair Winslow? My name is James Moretti. I was told you could help me."

There was a long pause on the other end.

"I know who you are, Mr. Moretti." Her voice was cold, guarded. "What do you want?"

"I want to know the truth about the Syndicate. About what happened to Detective Morrow. About who's running this city from the shadows."

Another pause. Then:

"You're in over your head, Mr. Moretti. You don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking. And I'm willing to pay the price."

The line was silent for a long moment.

Finally, Blair spoke: "Meet me tomorrow. Midnight. The Cathedral on Third Street. Come alone. If you bring anyone else—"

"I'll be there."

*You're trusting a journalist you've never met. You're walking into a trap. This could be exactly what Vale wants.*

James killed the call and stood in the darkness, his heart still pounding, his hands still shaking.

*One step at a time. One truth at a time. Someone set you up. Someone killed Morrow. Someone wants you dead.*

He was going to find out who.

And when he did—

*Someone was going to pay.*