Chapter 5 - Midnight at Pier 14
The ocean air at Pier 14 smelled of salt, diesel exhaust, and rotting algae.
High above the concrete docks, massive orange halogen lights cast long, amber shadows across stacks of rusting shipping containers. The dark water of the harbor slapped against the wooden pilings beneath the pier with a heavy, rhythmic groan.
I stepped out of my truck at precisely 11:58 p.m.
I wore my dark carpenter jacket, jeans, and work boots. To anyone watching through a pair of binoculars, I looked completely alone, unarmed, and vulnerable.
What they couldn't see was the throat-mic concealed beneath my collar, or the low-profile tactical ear-piece hidden under my graying hair.
"Team in position," Bull’s low voice crackled through my earpiece. "Jackson has the crane operator tower cleared. We found two of Vance’s spotters up here with silenced rifles. They're bound, gagged, and sleeping like babies."
"Copy, Bull," I whispered into my mic. "Ramirez, you in the shipping container stacks?"
"Thermal scope active, Top," Ramirez replied from two hundred yards away. "I count eight hostiles on the ground floor. All carrying short-barrel automatic weapons under their coats. Vance is sitting inside a black Mercedes Maybach parked in the center of the loading zone."
"Understood. Stand by on my mark."
I walked toward the center of the open concrete apron. The black Maybach sat forty yards ahead, its tinted windows reflecting the orange glow of the overhead lights. Four armed men stood around the vehicle, their hands tucked inside their dark coats, their eyes locked onto me.
As I stopped twenty paces from the Maybach, the rear door slid open automatically.
A man stepped out into the night air.
Victor Vance was in his late fifties, impeccably groomed, wearing a tailored gray wool coat, polished Italian leather shoes, and carrying a silver-topped walking cane. His face was lined with decades of cold calculation, his gray eyes devoid of any human warmth.
"Mr. Miller," Vance said, his voice echoing off the steel shipping containers. "You are punctual. I admire that in a man."
"Where is Dustin?" I asked, my hands buried casually in my jacket pockets.
Vance sighed, taking a silver cigarette case from his coat and lighting a thin clove cigarette. "Dustin is in a private clinic having his shoulder set. He was very emotional. Crying about his fighting career being over." Vance took a slow drag, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the night air. "I don't care about his fighting career, Mr. Miller. But I do care about respect. In my business, if a man beats my nephew and disarms my men without consequences, I lose my authority."
"You lost your authority the moment you allowed your nephew to beat a young woman," I said coldly.
Vance smiled—a cold, cruel movement of his lips. "She was an asset to control him, nothing more. But now, you are a loose end."
Vance raised his left hand, snapping his fingers once.
Instantly, the four men surrounding the Maybach pulled sleek submachine guns from beneath their coats, aiming them directly at my chest.
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"You should have brought an army, Sergeant Major," Vance sneered, turning his back to step back into his luxury sedan. "Execute him. Dump his body in the bay."
"Bull," I whispered into my collar. "Execute Option Alpha."
