Chapter 13 - The Docks of Newark
Midnight arrived under a shroud of thick, greasy industrial fog hanging over the Port of Newark. Endless rows of rusted shipping containers stretched into the darkness like a labyrinth of steel, the air thick with the smell of brine, diesel exhaust, and wet rust.
Arthur Sterling stood on the edge of Pier 14, checking his gold Patek Philippe watch under the glow of a solitary sodium vapor lamp. Behind him sat a nondescript black town car, its engine idling quietly. Two armed men in heavy overcoats stood near the trunk, their hands buried inside their pockets, grips firm on concealed submachine guns.
A pair of headlights cut through the fog as Frank’s battered Chevy Suburban rolled down the pier, coming to a halt twenty yards away. The engine died, and Frank stepped out into the damp chill, carrying a heavy duffel bag in his left hand.
""Right on time, Frank,"" Sterling said, adjusting his silk scarf. His tone was light, condescending, as if this were nothing more than a late-night board meeting. ""I assume the wire confirmation is in that bag?""
""You don't need a wire, Sterling,"" Frank said, walking steadily toward him, stopping ten feet short. He tossed the duffel bag at Sterling’s feet. The zipper split open, revealing stacks of encrypted hard drives and hand-written operational journals—Victor Vanderbilt’s original black ledgers.
Sterling’s eyes lit up with genuine greed. He gestured for one of his guards to inspect the bag. The guard knelt, flicking on a penlight, and nodded up at Sterling. ""It’s the real deal. All the original operational logs.""
""You always were efficient, Frank,"" Sterling said, a thin, patronizing smile curling his lips. ""It really is a shame Victor wasted your talents on security and maintenance. You could have run this entire shadow division.""
""I have a soul, Sterling. That disqualified me,"" Frank answered flatly.
Sterling chuckled softly, shaking his head. ""A soul is an expensive luxury in our line of work, my friend. And unfortunately, it’s about to cost you your life.""
Sterling stepped backward toward the open door of the town car. The two armed guards immediately raised their suppressed submachine guns, leveling them at Frank's chest.
""You didn't really think I was going to let you walk away with Elena, did you?"" Sterling asked, his hand on the car door. ""You know too much. Elena is a naive girl; she can be managed once you're out of the picture. A tragic shootout at the docks between rival smuggling factions... the media will eat it up.""
Frank didn't move. He didn't even reach for his weapon. He simply looked Sterling dead in the eye through the gloom.
""You forgot rule number one, Arthur,"" Frank said calmly.
Sterling frowned, a sudden knot of unease tightening in his stomach. ""What rule?""
""Never meet a mechanic on his own home turf.""
Frank raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
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From the top of three surrounding shipping containers, high-powered halogen floodlights suddenly flared to life, bathing Pier 14 in a blinding, surgical white light. Sirens wailed across the water as two Coast Guard tactical interceptor boats surged out of the fog, their mounted machine guns trained dead center on the town car.
Over the port’s loudspeaker, a commanding voice boomed: ""This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop your weapons and get on the ground immediately!""
