ROCKY - Operation Vengeance

Chapter 6-Getting Help?

The security room buzzed with the soft hum of monitors.

A blonde-haired man leaned forward, his sharp eyes scanning the multiple screens.

Rows of footage played in real time—guests, corridors, driveways, staircases.

Then—

“Stop,” he ordered.

The security officer’s fingers froze over the controls.

The screen zoomed in.

A slow smile spread across the blonde man’s lips.

Surprise flickered in his eyes.

“Well, well…” he murmured.

His fingers tapped against the console.

“What do we have here?”

A quiet chuckle.

Then—

“Transfer the footage to my PC,” he commanded. “And delete it from the system.”

The security officer hesitated.

A single look from the blonde man—

And he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

A few keystrokes.

The footage was gone.

The blonde man turned, stepping away with casual ease.

Then—

A presence.

A shadow.

Standing in his path.

Alfred.

The old man met his gaze.

Freddy smirked.

“Well, well… if it isn’t the honorable dog.”

Silence stretched between them.

Freddy’s smirk deepened.

“The very last person no one would suspect,” he said. “Just imagine if everyone knew the truth… about the Goldberg massacre.”

Alfred’s jaw tightened.

His gaze dropped.

Freddy chuckled.

“Oh, Alfred.” He leaned in slightly. “You reek of regret.”

Alfred said nothing.

But inside—

He knew.

Freddy was dangerous.

A man who could twist anything—use anything—as a weapon.

And this time—

Alfred wouldn’t let his past mistakes repeat themselves.

Freddy exhaled dramatically, brushing past him.

“Try not to look too guilty, old man,” he mused, striding away.

Alfred stood still.

His chest rose and fell.

Then—

He turned.

Stepped into the security room.

His voice was sharp.

“Show me the footage from the party.”

The security officer hesitated.

“Sir, uh… Freddy just came and asked for the footage.”

Stillness.

Alfred’s stomach dropped.

His fingers curled.

This is bad.

Freddy had the footage.

And worse—

He might be taking it to Maverick.

Alfred moved quickly.

His steps were silent, but his pulse pounded in his ears.

Up the grand staircase.

Down the long corridor.

His gloved hand curled into a fist.

Freddy must be heading to Maverick’s office.

Alfred quickened his pace.

Then—

Maverick’s door.

Still closed.

Alfred exhaled.

A sharp knock—

Then he pushed it open.

Inside—

Maverick lounged behind his massive desk.

One earpiece in.

His fingers lazily drummed against the polished wood.

A chuckle.

Low.

Dark.

His eyes—locked onto his screen.

Alfred’s breath hitched.

The footage?

Maverick’s voice cut through the silence.

“Next month…” he mused.

A slow grin.

“I’ll release the president from captivity.”

A choked sound.

The president.

On the floor.

Bound.

Weak.

His voice trembled.

“I have kids…”

Maverick rolled back in his chair.

Spun slightly.

Then—

Laughed.

Dark.

Cruel.

He reached for the crystal decanter, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

Didn’t look at Alfred.

“Drink?” he offered, swirling the amber liquid.

Alfred’s shoulders loosened slightly.

Not the video.

Still—

Danger lingered in the air.

Maverick took a slow sip.

“Power,” he murmured.

The glass hovered near his lips.

“When it’s taken, it makes you high.”

His tongue flicked over his teeth.

“Like whiskey.”

Then—

A smirk.

“And anyone who stops you from taking power—”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

A chuckle.

“Get rid of them.”

Alfred remained still.

Watching.

Maverick leaned back.

“The world fears me now,” he said softly.

His gaze dropped.

And for the first time—

His voice wavered.

“But…”

A whisper.

“Only one thing is above me.”

Alfred stilled.

His heartbeat slowed.

Of course, he knows.

A breath.

A thought crossed his mind

And he hopes he finds—

The van rumbled over uneven roads.

Rocky lay still.

His wrists burned where the ropes cut into his skin.

His head throbbed.

Then—

Voices.

Low.

Hushed.

But close.

“She said to kill him,” one muttered.

A scoff.

“Yeah, well… we ain’t killing him yet.”

A pause.

“Why?”

A dry chuckle.

“You trust Sophia?”

Silence.

Then—

“Hell no.”

“Exactly.”

A shift in movement.

“She still owes us seventy percent from the last job.”

A curse.

“Damn. You’re right.”

A second voice.

“So what do we do?”

A beat.

A smirk in the tone.

“We keep him alive.”

Another voice, considering—

“And use him to extort Sophia.”

A low laugh.

“Now that’s a great idea.”

Rocky’s fingers curled.

His breathing slowed.

They weren’t killing him yet.

The van jerked to a stop.

Doors creaked open.

Boots thudded against the ground.

Then—

Hands.

Grabbing him.

Dragging him out.

Cold air.

A scent of rust.

Dark.

A warehouse.

The ropes dug deeper into his skin.

Then—

A sharp strike.

Pain.

His vision blurred.

Then—

Blackness.

—

Morning.

A dull ache.

A pounding skull.

The scent of dust.

And—

A voice.

Close.

Curious.

“You good?”

Rocky’s eyes fluttered open.

A person stood before him.

A black man.

Arms crossed.

A brow raised.

“Why the hell you tied up here?”

Pain.

Rocky’s head pounded as he blinked against the light.

His wrists burned where the ropes had cut into his skin.

He inhaled—dust, rust, old fabric.

Then—

He remembered.

The van.

The voices.

The plan to use him.

This must be where they decided to keep him.

A deep breath.

Then—

The kid.

Standing before him, arms crossed.

“Where am I?” Rocky asked, his voice rough.

The boy shrugged. “Some abandoned fashion factory. D’Souza.”

Rocky’s brows furrowed.

D’Souza.

He knew the name.

Not been here.

But heard about it.

The place was popular in the city.

He swallowed hard.

“I need you to untie me.”

A pause.

A stare.

Then—

The boy sighed and crouched down, loosening the ropes.

Relief flooded Rocky’s limbs as his hands came free.

His fingers flexed, blood rushing back.

He was still in the city.

Not far.

That was good.

“Thanks,” Rocky muttered.

The boy stretched out a hand.

“Mickey J. But people call me Junior.”

Rocky shook it.

“Rocky.”

Mickey’s head tilted. “How’d you get here?”

Rocky exhaled.

Looked down.

“They kidnapped me.”

A beat.

His throat tightened.

“My in-laws.”

Mickey’s brows shot up.

A moment of silence.

Then—

A quiet voice.

“Why don’t we report this to my boss?”

Rocky lifted his gaze.

Mickey shrugged.

“The gang’s meet-up house is close by.”

Rocky looked aside.

His mind raced.

Maybe—

Maybe this was exactly what he needed.

Protection.

Help.

A gang boss might be his only chance to get Melissa back.

To take her from Jerry.

His jaw clenched.

He nodded.

Mickey smirked. “Come on.”

—

They walked into a dim lit bar.

The air—thick with smoke and cheap liquor.

Low voices murmured.

Glances.

Suspicion.

One of the men eyed Mickey.

“Who’s the guy?”

Mickey barely slowed his step.

“He needs to see the boss.”

A grunt.

The man leaned back, watching Rocky as they passed.

Then—

They arrived.

A fat man sat at a small wooden table.

A full chicken in his hands.

Chewing.

Tearing into the meat.

Pepper soup steaming beside him.

Licking his fingers.

Then—

A belch.

Slowly, the man lifted his head.

His eyes locked on Mickey.

“He’s here,” Mickey said.

The man’s gaze slid to Rocky.

His lips smacked.

A long look.

Then—

A squint.

“Your face looks familiar.”

Rocky stiffened.

The fat man leaned forward.

“What do you want?”

Rocky’s breath hitched.

Then—

The door swung open.

Heavy footsteps.

A guard.

Carrying someone.

Rocky’s stomach twisted.

The guard strode forward—

And dropped the person onto a chair.

Rocky’s heart slammed against his ribs.

His breath caught.

Melissa.

His wife.

Here.

His chest burned.

Mickey nudged him.

“Why’re you silent?” he whispered. “It’s disrespectful to keep quiet before the boss.”

A deep breath.

“Tell him,” Mickey insisted. “Maybe he can help.”

Rocky’s fists clenched.

His jaw tightened.

His voice—low.

“I can’t.”

Mickey frowned. “Why not?”

Rocky’s breath shook as he whispered—

“Because that man…”

His eyes locked on the boss.

His blood ran cold.

“…is the one who took my wife.”