The doctor said thirty-one fractures. Thirty-one hammer blows to my wife's body while I was deployed. I stood in that ICU hallway with rage burning through every cell, and then I saw the men who did it SMILING at me like it was entertainment. One of them called me a "government dog." He forgot what attack dogs are trained to do.

By 6:00 AM, the rain had cleared, leaving the city wrapped in a freezing, razor-sharp fog.

I stood on the roof of a six-story abandoned warehouse overlooking the South Dock terminals. The cold bit through my hoodie, but I welcomed it. It kept my blood clear and my pulse down.

Below me, two dozens crane lights cut through the mist, illuminating an unmarked freight container that had been unloaded from a panamanian vessel two hours ahead of schedule. This was Pier 42—the financial heart of Dominic Wolfe's off-the-books smuggling operations. According to the encrypted manifest Bishop had pulled from the shipping line's server, this container didn't hold machine parts as declared. It held eighty million dollars worth of untaxed luxury vehicles, high-end electronics, and illegal bearer bonds.

Dominic used the profits from Pier 42 to pay off the precinct captains, the docks inspectors, and his father's private security army.

Without Pier 42, Dominic was just a violent thug with a loud mouth and an expensive suit.

My tablet buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a message from Bishop.

[Customs enforcement is completely blind on this pier. Dominic’s paid inspector, a guy named Miller, signed off on the manifest ten minutes ago. Container is scheduled to be loaded onto three flatbed trucks at 6:30 AM.]

I typed back: [Where is Miller now?]

[In his patrol car at the main gate. Drinking coffee, waiting for his payout envelope.]

I tucked the tablet away, pulled a pair of heavy tactical gloves over my hands, and slung a compact leather tool bag across my chest.

Five minutes later, I was standing in the shadows beside Inspector Miller's white patrol cruiser.

The driver's side window was cracked an inch to let out the steam from his coffee. I tapped twice on the glass with my knuckles.

Miller swung his head around, startled. He rolled down the window another three inches, his hand dropping toward his service belt. "The pier is restricted, pal. Get the hell out of—"

I shoved the tip of a slim metal pry-bar through the open window, wedging it against the steering wheel, and pressed a high-resolution printout of a bank statement against the glass.

Miller froze. His face went pale in the dashboard light.

The document in front of his nose was a detailed breakdown of a private bank account in the Cayman Islands registered under his daughter's name—an account that had received forty thousand dollars every month for the last three years from a Wolfe shell company.

"Inspector Miller," I said softly, my face shadowed by my hood. "That statement, along with sixteen audio recordings of your phone calls with Dominic Wolfe, is currently sitting in the inbox of the Assistant United States Attorney for the Eastern District."

Miller’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. "Who... who are you? Did federal agents send you?"

"I'm Sergeant Jack Mercer," I said. "And you have two choices. Choice one: you pick up your radio right now, call the State Police contraband division, and report a high-value illegal shipment on Pier 42."

"If I do that, Victor Wolfe will kill me!" Miller gasped, sweat breaking out across his lip.

"Choice two," I continued, unbothered by his panic. "I hit send on my tablet. The feds raid your house in thirty minutes, seize your daughter's bank accounts, arrest you for federal conspiracy, and you spend the next twenty years in a maximum-security prison while Victor Wolfe finds a new inspector."

Miller stared at the printout, his chest heaving. He looked at his radio. He looked at my eyes through the glass. He saw no mercy, no negotiation, and no compromise.

Slowly, with a trembling hand, Miller reached for his radio microphone.

"Dispatch... this is Unit 404," Miller choked out into the receiver. "I have a... I have a 10-90 in progress at Pier 42. Unmanifested high-value contraband. Requesting immediate state backup and federal customs interdiction units."

"Copy 404, units dispatched," the radio crackled back.

I smiled cold through the window. "Good choice, Inspector. Now give me the gate keycard."

Miller handed it over without a word.

I slipped away into the fog before the police sirens even began to echo across the harbor. Ten minutes later, I was perched on the water tower behind Pier 42, watching through pair of military binoculars.

Four state police cruisers and two black federal SUVs roared through the pier gates, blocking the three flatbed trucks just as they were pulling away from the container.

Dominic’s lead enforcer—the man responsible for managing the docks—was dragged out of his truck, thrown against the wet pavement, and handcuffed in full view of forty dockworkers. The container doors were crowbarred open, revealing millions of dollars in seized illegal goods.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from an unknown number.

Mason: [Dominic just got the news. He broke his office desk with a chair. My father called him into the main library. They're screaming at each other. My father hit him.]