Pier 14 was black as pitch.
The muddy waters of the Trinity River slapped against rotten wooden pilings.
Julian walked down the narrow boardwalk alone.
The silver briefcase felt heavy in his right hand.
High above on the rusted iron cranes, thermal scopes tracked his every movement.
A solitary yellow bulb flickered above the open bay doors of Warehouse B.
Julian stepped inside.
The air smelled of rusted iron, diesel exhaust, and dead river weeds.
A single wooden chair sat under the overhead light.
Sitting on it was an older man with snow-white hair, an immaculate tailored charcoal coat, and cold gray eyes.
Richard Sterling.
Beside him stood four men armed with automatic rifles.
“You’re five minutes late, Julian,” Sterling said, his voice cultured and razor-sharp.
“Traffic on the interstate,” Julian replied coldly.
Julian tossed the briefcase onto the damp concrete floor between them.
The latches popped open under the force of the fall.
Stacks of Swiss bearer certificates spilled out onto the stone.
One of Sterling’s guards stepped forward, kicked the case fully open, and scanned the serial numbers with a handheld device.
The screen flashed green.
“They’re genuine, sir,” the guard announced.
Sterling let out a low, dry chuckle.
“Your father destroyed my life for numbers on a ledger, Julian.”
“Now his grandson buys your life with paper.”
“Where is the rest of the documentation, Sterling?” Julian demanded.
“The signatures proving Vanessa and Helena acted on your orders?”
Sterling smiled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Did you really believe I came here to trade documents?”
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“I came here to watch the Whitmore bloodline end,” Sterling whispered.
Sterling raised his right hand.
The guards leveled their rifles at Julian’s chest.
Julian didn't flinch.
He raised his left wrist and tapped his watch twice.
“Take the shot.”
A second later, the sound of heavy rifle fire shattered the night.
