Chapter 12 - the fire on pier 42
The storm had turned into a howling gale by the time the SUV barreled through the chain-link gates of Pier 42.
The harbor was a maze of towering steel shipping containers, stacked four high under the buzzing yellow halogen lamps. The federal cruisers were gone, having pulled back following Falcone’s frantic calls, leaving the vast industrial labyrinth eerie and deserted.
Except for the low, rhythmic hum of a diesel freighter idling at the edge of the deepwater dock.
Luca killed the headlights three hundred yards out. "Vance Maritime only operates out of Berth 9. That's the private slip at the far end of the pier."
Victor checked his weapon, sliding a fresh magazine into the grip. "How many men does Celeste have on the payroll?"
"Six private contractors," Luca replied, pulling a pair of tactical radios from the glove box. "Ex-military. Heavily armed. They don't answer to the Commission, Victor. They answer to the money."
"Then they die for it," Victor said coldly.
They moved through the shadows between the rusty shipping containers, rain pounding against their coats. The metallic smell of salt water and diesel fuel filled the air.
As they rounded the corner of a red container marked with the Vance crest, a sharp crack shattered the night.
A bullet sparked off the steel wall inches from Victor’s shoulder.
Victor didn't flinch. He dropped low, leveled his weapon, and fired twice through the blinding sheets of rain. A dark figure tumbled from the catwalk of an elevated crane forty feet above, crashing hard onto the wooden pier.
"Move!" Victor commanded.
Luca advanced along the flank, laying down suppressed fire against two mercenaries taking cover behind a forklift. The contractors were professional, but they weren't fighting for their family; Victor was.
Victor advanced with terrifying precision. He moved like a ghost through the downpour, closing the distance between the shipping crates. Every shot he fired was measured, lethal, and final. Within three minutes, the gunfire died down, replaced only by the groaning of the freighter’s mooring lines against the dock.
At the center of Berth 9, sitting isolated beneath the glare of two industrial floodlights, was a single white refrigerated shipping container.
Its heavy steel doors were unlocked, swinging slightly in the wind.
Standing in front of the open container, holding an umbrella in one hand and a small silver detonator in the other, was Celeste.
Her silver evening gown was soaked and ruined, clinging to her shivering frame, but her cold, aristocratic face was contorted in a sneer of pure venom.
May you like
"You're too late, Victor," Celeste shouted over the roar of the ocean. "You should have stayed in your library playing Boss."
***
