Chapter 6 - Shadow at the Docks
The rain poured in relentless sheets over the industrial district, turning the asphalt into black mirrors reflecting the yellow halos of sodium streetlamps. Alexander sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked, heavily armored black SUV. Beside him, Briggs monitored three different surveillance streams on a dashboard tablet.
“Commissioner Hayes complied,” Briggs reported. “The port authority locked down the terminal gates, but Kane’s private security has barricaded the entrance to Drydock Four. Local police won't touch it—they claim it’s private maritime jurisdiction.”
Alexander loaded a fresh magazine into his Kimber .45. “Jurisdiction belongs to whoever has the firepower to hold it.”
Through the rain-streaked windshield, the massive silhouette of Drydock Four loomed against the dark water of the bay. The facility was an abandoned Cold War submarine repair station, surrounded by rusted barbed wire and shipping containers stacked three stories high. Armed mercenaries patrolled the catwalks, their silhouettes visible beneath the halogen floodlights.
“We have eight men,” Briggs said, tapping the tactical map. “They outnumber us four to one, and they have the high ground.”
“They have mercenaries fighting for a paycheck,” Alexander replied, opening his door into the biting wind. “I am fighting for my son. That makes their numbers irrelevant.”
Moving through the shadows between the rusting shipping containers, Alexander and his strike team advanced toward the auxiliary entrance. Two guards stood outside an iron hatch, smoking cigarettes beneath a canvas tarp to escape the torrential downpour. Before either could react, Briggs and another operative stepped from the gloom, dispatching both with suppressed shots that made no more noise than raindrops slapping the concrete.
Alexander stepped over the fallen guards and tested the heavy wheel on the hatch. It was locked from the inside with an electronic keypad. Alexander reached into his pocket and produced the smartphone Elena had surrendered at the manor. He pressed Richard’s thumbprint—which he had forcibly scanned before locking the young traitor in the cellar—against the remote sync scanner.
The lock clicked with a heavy mechanical clunk. The heavy steel door swung inward, revealing a dimly lit concrete corridor that smelled of stagnant saltwater, engine oil, and antiseptic.
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Alexander stepped inside, his shoes silent against the wet concrete. At the end of the hall, voices drifted through a metal grate—one of them undeniably belonging to Victor Kane.
“Increase the dosage,” Victor’s voice commanded coldly. “If Alexander breaches the perimeter, I want Marcus’s heart to stop before that old bastard can even see his face.”
