Shadows lept across the wall from a passing car, the headlights briefly illuminating sections of the office. Nemesis crouched low, his own form hidden by the nearby desk. Traffic was light near the wharves this time of night, more so the further one went toward the water. Nemesis steadied his breathing and waited for sound to resume in the next room.

 

The small office was of a type with the typical warehouse office; close, dirty, old. It was practical but was not what one would picture when one thought of a multimillion dollar business. Of course, that estimation might be revised if one knew that the money was made from drugs and guns smuggled in and out of the port. Through his usual anonymous sources on the internet—confirmed through discreet if aggressive questioning of a few streetwise persons—Nemesis knew that several trucks would be dispatched to haul their cargo of contraband across the tri-state area. Authorities had been bribed, security tightened, and all the plans laid.

 

He’d spent two days on the case. Cargo ships registered to China, Singapore and France were dropping off one shipping bin apiece, each containing a portion of the contraband. The items were sorted and redistributed to a small fleet of trucks in this warehouse, to be delivered to several organizations and gangs beholden to the Verontese family. “Black Mike” Calvone had decided it was time to make his move. Several bodies had turned up to help point the way.

 

Nemesis was here to ensure that Black Mike’s plans went to hell. Creeping forward, Nemesis placed his ear to the door.

 

On the landing outside the office several men stood discussing the shipment, going over each manifest and destination. Nemesis knew none of the major players here, only that Black Mike had brought in some outside talent to help oversee this major operation. Given enough time Nemesis was certain he could have brought up a full profile, but time was one thing he didn’t have. He’d only just received word of the location a couple hours past, much less the names involved. He’d considered bringing in help from The Conquistadors but he’d talked himself out of the idea. He had several rational reasons behind his decision but ultimately, admittedly, it came down to pride. This was his kind of crime. The Conquistadors would be aiming for loftier targets; it was up to the individuals—to him—to handle the street crimes plaguing the city. Besides, it was unlikely they had anything he hadn’t seen before, and certainly nothing he couldn’t handle.

 

He readied the pellets in his left hand, his staff in his right, then settled the small breathing apparatus in his mouth. A burst of gas, a couple of quick strikes and the fight would be over. He could take out the thugs and the drivers with ease after that.

 

Nemesis stood slowly and resisted the urge to smile at the familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through his body. It was good to be doing what he did best.

 

* * * * *

 

 

Nemesis opened his eyes slowly, groggily. He shook his head to clear it, wincing at both the physical pain at the base of his skull and at the throbbing behind his eyes. He blinked, his vision off, then realized his goggles were cracked. He reached to adjust—

 

His hand were tied. To be clearer, he was strapped to a chain-link fence, his arms spread-eagled, legs slightly apart. Turning his head he realized his neck was similarly restrained. It looked like they used zip ties and bailing wire. His suit kept the restraints from cutting his skin but it certainly appeared that he was caught. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to focus past the pain and figure out what happened.

 

He’d come through the door as planned, the gas pellets going off, his staff blurring through the cloud to strike once, twice, three times. Three bodies hit the floor in rapid succession. In moments the gas had dissipated enough that he’d removed his breathing apparatus and secured the three men. They’d be out for hours. Then—

 

Through flashes of pain he remembered being struck, repeatedly, quickly, from behind. He’d had little time to do anything but defend himself, trying to move away from the attack. He’d slipped from the landing to crash atop the crates below, hurt but not disabled, and struggled to regain his orientation. There were several bangs around him and he’d fallen from the crates to the concrete floor, his head pounding and his senses dulled. He vaguely remembered several forms running forward. Then nothing.

 

Until now.

 

“Grenades.”

 

Nemesis opened his eyes. Michael Calvone himself stood before him, smiling slightly. To his left was another recognized face, Willy “the Pick” Scapetta, Black Mike’s most-feared enforcer and hitman. Nemesis had been trying to get him for a while. Willy wasn’t smiling. The third figure was completely unknown to Nemesis but managed to get much of his attention.

 

He was a solid-looking man, perhaps a size smaller than Nemesis but no less dangerous-looking. He was dressed casually in a tee and jeans with a leather jacket over. Something about his eyes made Nemesis itch to be free; they were lifeless, and they looked at a person as if will alone could make them dead.

 

“Grenades,” Black Mike said again. He gestured to the man on his right, who nodded slightly. He opened his coat to reveal a weapons harness and several dangling miniature canisters. He glanced at Black Mike before returning his dead eyes to Nemesis and began pointing to each.

 

“Flash bang.” Black Mike spoke as the man pointed. “Tear Gas. Concussion.” The man closed his coat with a glance and Black Mike nodded as he continued speaking. “We believed it best to be careful and hit you with all three.” Willy the Pick chuckled evilly and cracked his knuckles. He had a small machine pistol hanging from a shoulder strap just in front.

 

Nemesis’ focus remained on the silent man.

 

“Oh. How rude of me.” Black Mike was anything but apologetic. “Nemesis, this is Omertà. He doesn’t speak” The head of the Verontese family smiled coldly. “He doesn’t need to. Omertà, Nemesis.” The silent man mimed touching a hat.

 

Omertà. Code of Silence. The unofficial mantra of the Cosa Nostra, specifically Sicilian crime families.

 

“Enough.” Black Mike stepped forward and ran a finger along Nemesis’ mask. “I’m so tempted to just pull this off and be done with it, but that wouldn’t do. I have a debt, and you’re the payment.” He smiled coldly. “Your days of plaguing the families are over, Nemesis. Your days are over, period.”

 

He turned, nodded to the man, and walked away. Omertà reached into his coat and withdrew a small pistol that looked like nothing more than a bulbous water gun. The man held it up for Nemesis to see. It was of unfamiliar design. He pointed it at Nemesis and pulled the trigger. A concentrated burst of air hissed at him. Gas! Coughing, Nemesis struggled to resist the drug. Nemesis felt consciousness slipping away. Omertà smiled again, his dead eyes lingering on Nemesis with something akin to bored interest.

 

Everything went black.