Sergeant Wade leaned against the hood of his unmarked car, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, eyes fixed on the silent expanse of the docks. The cold, silver crescent moon bathed the waterfront in fractured light, shadows pooling between the towering shipping containers. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and rust, mingling with the low hum of engines from cargo ships moored in the distance.
Wade's men were positioned strategically, tucked into the shadows of crates and concealed behind the hulking frames of stacked containers. The perimeter was locked down, a ring of steel and bodies. If Canan Kane had any tricks left, they wouldn't get him far.
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Wade let the smoke trail lazily from his lips. The thrill of the hunt thrummed faintly in his chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. Yet, beneath the excitement, a gnawing doubt lingered. What if Kane had outsmarted him again?
Kane was supposed to be a thing of the past.
Wade's brow furrowed as the memory of the previous night resurfaced. The ambush at the junkyard had been meticulously planned, each detail crafted to ensure the guillotine fell squarely on Kane's neck. Wade had spent years honing his instincts, cultivating a sixth sense for when his subordinates were about to become insubordinate. Kane had been no exception.
For weeks, Wade had watched him closely—the tightened jaw, the flickers of defiance in his eyes, the moments of hesitation during their "business dealings." Kane was reaching the end of his rope, and Wade knew these signs all too well.
Better to snuff out a fire before it has a chance to spread.
The plan had been flawless. Kane was to walk into the junkyard, deliver the drop, and walk out in a body bag. The perfect fall guy for a bloody, staged confrontation with 'gangsters'.
Instead, Wade had found himself a few men short.
His jaw clenched at the thought. The gangsters who'd shown up had been nothing more than fodder—reckless and disorganized. Wade had taken out a few himself in the chaos, but the loss of his own men had left his fury unbridled. Kane had slipped through his fingers, and Wade didn't like loose ends.
He flicked his cigarette into the dirt, grinding it beneath his heel.
It was that fury that had kept him awake through the night, pacing his office as he replayed every moment of the ambush. How had Kane outmaneuvered him? The scoundrel wasn't stupid, but he wasn't brilliant either—not brilliant enough to escape a noose tied that tightly.
Something had changed.
Wade prided himself on being able to read men, and everything he'd observed about Kane pointed to one conclusion: the bastard should have folded. Kane should have walked into the trap, clueless about his impending demise. Yet, against all odds, he'd survived—and even turned the tables.
That realization had sent a ripple of wariness through Wade's otherwise unshakable confidence. Kane wasn't the same man he'd been just a few days ago. There was an edge to him now, a sharpness Wade couldn't quite explain.
After conveniently cleaning up the narrative and ironically ending up hailed as a hero at the precinct, Wade knew he had to act immediately.
By mid-afternoon, he was pacing his office, barking orders into his phone. The hit on Kane had to be thorough, decisive, and public enough to send a message. Wade called his most reliable men, issuing explicit instructions to ensure there were no more screw-ups. At the same time, he ensured that Kane's attempts to call for backup during any confrontation were intercepted or delayed.
When he received the first report of failure, Wade's jaw tightened. By the third, his office phone slammed into the wall. Each failure stoked the fire of Wade's frustration.
What the hell is going on?
Kane wasn't a ghost; he wasn't some criminal mastermind. He was a scoundrel, a rat caught in a maze of Wade's design. But somehow, he kept slipping through the cracks.
Wade sank into his chair, glaring at the cracked face of his watch. The fury that had initially consumed him gave way to something colder: wariness.
Then the call came.
"I've got something you want," Kane had said, his voice steady. "The drugs from the drop. And I'm willing to make a deal."
Wade had listened, his mind racing. He didn't care about the drugs—not in the way Kane probably thought. Losing them had been a calculated risk, a sacrifice Wade was willing to make to tighten the noose around Kane's neck.
But the prospect of confronting Kane directly? That was an opportunity Wade couldn't pass up.
"Fine," he'd replied. "Where and when?"
"The river docks. Midnight."
Wade had smirked, hanging up without another word.
Now, as the appointed hour drew near, Wade felt a pulse of excitement beneath his composed exterior. He didn't just want to kill Kane—he wanted to make a statement.
Wade turned his gaze toward the shipping containers that lined the docks like silent sentinels. Behind those walls of steel, a small army of his men lay in wait, armed and ready. This wasn't just about Kane anymore. Wade knew others were watching, waiting to see how this game would play out.
The docks were his stage, and tonight, he'd remind everyone why he was the one pulling the strings.
The faint crunch of gravel drew Wade's attention to the far end of the lot. A figure emerged from the shadows, moving with deliberate calm.
It was Kane.
He was alone, a black duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder. His steps were unhurried, his posture relaxed, but Wade didn't miss the tautness in his movements.
Wade stayed rooted to his spot, letting Kane come closer. His gaze flicked over the man, cataloging every detail. The sharp line of Kane's jaw was illuminated briefly by moonlight, but his expression remained unreadable.
Cocky little bastard.
"Kane!" Wade called out, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You've got some nerve showing your face."
Kane didn't answer immediately. He stopped a few paces away, the duffel bag still slung over his shoulder. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable.
"You wanted the drugs," Kane said finally, his tone even. "Here they are."
He dropped the bag at his feet with a dull thud.
Wade's lips curled into a predatory smile. "That's mighty generous of you. But let's not pretend you came here out of the goodness of your heart."
Kane tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're right. I didn't."
Something about Kane's demeanor set Wade on edge. He could sense the tension simmering beneath the surface, like a taut wire waiting to snap.
Wade stepped forward, motioning to two of his men to approach the bag. They moved cautiously, their weapons drawn as they inspected its contents.
"Go on," Wade said, his voice low and commanding. "Open it."
One of the men unzipped the bag, revealing the neatly packed bricks of narcotics inside. He nodded to Wade, signaling that everything was in order.
Wade's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, Kane, it looks like you've upheld your end of the bargain. But that doesn't mean we're done here."
"I didn't think we would be," Kane replied, his tone calm.
Wade took another step closer, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. The docks were silent except for the faint lapping of water against the shore.
"This is how it ends, Kane," Wade said, his voice laced with cold finality. "You made your move, and now it's time to pay the price."
Kane didn't flinch. Instead, he met Wade's gaze head-on, his expression inscrutable.
"Funny thing about plans," Kane said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They don't always go the way you expect."
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Wade's eyes narrowed, his instincts screaming that something wasn't right.
Before he could react, a sound shattered the stillness—a sound that the grizzled veteran was all too familiar with, the cocking of firearms.