Chapter 13 - The Salt and the Iron
Terminal 4 at the Port of Saint John was an abyss of frozen iron and salt-crusted shipping containers. The tide was low, exposing dark, kelp-covered mudflats that smelled of decaying seaweed and cold brine.
A single luxury yacht, the Aegis Sovereign, was moored to the outer concrete pier, its sleek grey hull looking more like a naval frigate than a pleasure craft. Armed sentries in black cold-weather gear patrolled the deck, their thermal sights sweeping the perimeter.
Vince moved through the shadows of the container yard, keeping low against the frosted gravel. His breath plumed in white clouds in the sub-zero air.
He reached the base of the yacht’s gangway, stepping deliberately into the beam of a high-powered floodlight.
Instantly, three red laser dots centered on his chest.
"Vincent Moreno," a calm voice drifted from the yacht’s aft deck.
Standing beneath the heated awning was an older man in a charcoal wool overcoat, his silver hair neatly combed back, a crystal glass of amber liquor in his hand. Beside him stood the thin man from the harbor shed, his assault rifle raised.
"Come aboard, Vincent," the silver-haired man said, gesturing with his glass. "It’s too cold for posturing."
Vince walked up the gangway with steady, unhurried steps, his empty hands held loosely at his sides. He wore no coat—only a dark tactical sweater, his throat tattoos stark against his pale skin.
As he stepped onto the teak deck, the thin sentry immediately moved behind him, running a metal detector over his frame, confiscating the Remington shotgun and the spare ammunition Vince had intentionally placed in his outer belt.
"He's clean, Director Weber," the sentry confirmed.
Weber smiled faintly, taking a sip from his glass. "Of course he is. Vincent is a professional. He knows that weapons on this deck are entirely redundant."
"Where is the offshore relay?" Vince asked, his voice cutting through the wind like a chisel.
"Straight to business. How American," Weber sighed, leaning back against the mahogany rail. "The relay is disconnected, Vincent. Your family’s shipping empire was merely a conduit. When Marcus failed to secure the asset, he became a liability. When Bella broke, she became trash. But you... you have survived two ambushes, three federal investigations, and a sunken ship. Men of your resilience are rare."
"I didn't come to join your club, Weber," Vince spat. "I came to give you the drive in exchange for my family's clearance."
He pulled a small, silver flash drive from his pocket, holding it between two fingers under the deck lights.
Weber's eyes narrowed slightly, a glimmer of genuine greed surfacing beneath his aristocratic facade. "A reasonable trade. Hand it over, and your wife and child will be forgotten by the Vanguard Group. You have my word as a gentleman."
"Your word isn't worth the mud on this pier," Vince said.
"Perhaps," Weber chuckled. "But it is the only currency you have left."
Vince took two steps forward, extending the drive toward Weber’s outstretched hand.
Just as Weber’s fingers touched the cold metal, Vince snapped his wrist forward, catching Weber’s thumb in a brutal, bone-snapping lock.
Weber screamed in shock, his glass shattering on the teak deck as Vince hauled the older man violently forward, spinning him into a human shield just as the thin sentry raised his rifle.
"Drop it!" Vince roared, pulling a concealed ceramic maritime flare from the sleeve of his sweater, pressing its pressurized ignition tip directly against the base of Weber’s throat. "Drop the rifle or I’ll ignite four thousand degrees of magnesium inside his spinal cord!"
The sentry froze, his finger hovering on the trigger, his eyes wide with horror as Weber shrieked in agony, his aristocratic poise completely shattered.
"Shoot him!" Weber choked out. "Shoot through me!"
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"He won't," Vince whispered into Weber’s ear, his voice freezing the man’s soul. "Because without you, the Vanguard accounts don't pay his contract."
Vince backed toward the yacht’s bridge door, dragging Weber with him like a rag doll. "Open the satellite comms terminal, Director. You’re going to broadcast a full confession to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the United States Coast Guard. Right now."
