Chapter 8 - Midnight Ambush at Dock Forty-Four
Rain hammered against the rusted corrugated steel roofs of Dock Forty-Four like a barrage of machine-gun fire.
At 11:45 PM, a black convoy of three armored SUVs rolled through the main gate, parking in a defensive semi-circle around Container Bay Seven.
Marcus Vale stepped out of the lead vehicle, surrounded by four bodyguards carrying tactical submachine guns under their heavy jackets. He looked haggard, his tie loosened, his eyes darting across every shadow in the shipyard.
Waiting by the container doors was a tall, lean man in a tailored leather jacket—Salvatore Ramos, Viktor Cruz’s chief logistics enforcer in North America.
“You’re late, Marcus,” Ramos said with a heavy South American accent, flicking a cigarette into a puddle. “The cargo ship has been idling outside territorial waters for three hours. Coast Guard radar is active tonight.”
“We had security complications at the penthouse,” Marcus replied coldly. “Open the containers. I want the purity test verified before the transfer funds are wired to the Cayman account.”
Ramos signaled his men. Two armed cartel operatives used an industrial bolt cutter to snap the heavy steel seals on the central forty-foot container.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were over two hundred industrial barrels marked with hazardous chemical warnings.
Marcus stepped forward, pulling a testing kit from his briefcase. “If this shipment clears, Moretti Shipping will give your vessels priority clearance at every berth between Boston and Miami.”
“That was the deal with Mr. Moretti,” Ramos said smoothly. “It’s a pleasure doing business with a man who understands how to remove obstacles.”
Suddenly, the harbor’s industrial floodlights flickered and died.
Total darkness fell over Dock Forty-Four.
“Weapons up!” Marcus’s head of security yelled, clicking his tactical light on. “Form a perimeter around the SUVs!”
A deafening siren began to wail across the harbor.
From the overhead gantry crane forty feet above, a blinding spotlight snapped on, pinning Marcus and Ramos in a direct beam of brilliant white light.
Standing beside the crane controls was Frank Russo, holding a loudspeaker.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” Frank’s voice echoed across the shipyard. “Notice from Harbor Management: Pier Forty-Four is closed due to toxic waste cleanup!”
“Shoot him down!” Marcus screamed, pointing at the crane.
Before his guards could raise their rifles, a thunderous explosion rocked the rear of the dock.
The heavy sea gates separating Dock Forty-Four from the main tidal basin swung violently open under automated hydraulic control. A wall of seawater rushed into the lower shipping bay, flooding the concrete yard with four feet of turbulent ocean water.
Cartel operatives screamed as the surging tide swept their feet out from under them.
From the shadows of the container stacks emerged Adrian Moretti, moving like a phantom through the mist.
He fired two suppressed rounds into the engine blocks of the armored SUVs, disabling their radiators with bursts of steam.
Ramos pulled an automatic pistol, aiming at the silhouette in the fog.
Adrian closed the distance in three swift strides, parried Ramos’s arm upward, and delivered a devastating palm strike to the enforcer’s jaw. Ramos crashed into the flooded floor, unconscious before he hit the water.
Marcus turned to run toward the access road, his boots splashing wildly through the rising tide.
A heavy hand clamped onto his collar like an iron vice, slamming him backward against the cold steel of the chemical container.
Marcus looked up, gasping for air, the rain pouring down his terrified face.
Adrian stood over him, holding him pinned with one hand, his eyes burning with absolute, merciless judgment.
“You always were a terrible runner, Marcus,” Adrian whispered.
Marcus choked on his own breath, his voice cracking into a high-pitched whimper. “Adrian... please... it was Elena! She came to me! She planned it all! She wanted the money!”
Adrian leaned in, his lips inches from Marcus’s ear.
May you like
“You have twelve hours to gather every cent you stole and show up at the shareholder meeting tomorrow,” Adrian said softly. “If you try to board a plane, Frank will find you. If you go to the police, Viktor Cruz will find you. Because I just sent the GPS coordinates of your personal bank accounts to Cruz’s lieutenants, telling them you stole tonight’s shipment.”
Adrian released his grip. Marcus collapsed into the knee-deep saltwater, shivering uncontrollably as Adrian stepped back into the shadows and vanished into the storm.
