Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Port
The rain was heavy across the industrial shipping docks of the Delaware River at 11:00 PM.
A black commercial van sat idling in the shadow of Shipping Terminal 4. Inside sat Marcus Kane and three heavily armed men in tactical gear.
"You sure she’s in the convoy?" Kane asked, checking the magazine of his suppressed pistol.
"Yeah," Roy Vance whispered nervously from the driver's seat. "Marchetti’s security team moves her to the private airfield every Tuesday night for safety. They're using the port bypass road to avoid downtown traffic."
"Easy money," Kane grinned nastily. "We ram the secondary SUV, grab the girl, and deliver her to Whitmore’s safehouse in Jersey."
Headlights appeared through the thick fog along the deserted dock road.
A three-car convoy—two black Suburbans framing a silver sedan—approached slowly through the rain.
"Now!" Kane barked.
The black commercial van roared to life, accelerating out of the shadows and slamming violently into the front driver's side of the lead Suburban.
Metal crunched loudly, glass shattered, and steam poured from the wrecked engine bays.
Kane and his three men leaped out of the van, weapons raised, charging toward the central silver sedan.
"Out of the car! Hands on your heads!" Kane screamed, smashing the rear window of the silver sedan with the butt of his weapon.
He reached inside, yanked the door open, and pulled out a figure wrapped in an ice-blue silk coat.
"Got her!" Kane yelled, shoving the figure against the side of the car. "Get the zip-ties!"
The figure slowly lifted her head.
Under the harsh yellow beam of the dock lights, the person in the blue coat wasn't Evelyn.
It was Leo—Vincent’s six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-forty-pound chief security officer, wearing a silk scarf over his face.
Leo offered Kane a cold, brutal smile. "Looking for someone, boys?"
Before Kane could react, the heavy steel doors of three massive shipping containers surrounding the dock swung open simultaneously.
Dozens of high-powered tactical spotlights flashed on, blinding Kane and his men in an unbearable glare of bright white light.
Over thirty heavily armed Marchetti security personnel stepped out from the containers, weapons raised, locking the ambushers in an inescapable crossfire circle.
Walking slowly through the center of the light, wearing a heavy black wool overcoat, carrying a dark leather umbrella, was Vincent Marchetti.
Walking beside him, wearing a warm coat and holding a digital recording device, was Evelyn.
Kane dropped his weapon to the wet asphalt immediately, his hands flying into the air. "Marchetti! Wait! It was just a job! Whitmore paid us!"
Vincent stopped ten feet away. He didn't even look at Kane. He looked down at Roy Vance, who was cowering inside the driver's seat of the wrecked van.
"Where is Graham Whitmore right now, Vance?" Vincent asked softly.
"At... at his campaign headquarters!" Vance sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. "He’s waiting for the phone call! He’s got the press secretary on standby to broadcast the kidnapping story!"
Vincent looked at Evelyn. "Do you have the recording, Miss Harper?"
Evelyn pressed a button on her tablet. A crisp, crystal-clear audio file played through the speaker—a wiretapped phone call between Graham Whitmore and Marcus Kane detailing the entire kidnapping plan, along with explicit instructions to "accidently break Evelyn's legs" if she tried to scream.
"Take these men to the precinct," Vincent ordered his guards casually. "Hand them directly to the Federal Prosecutor along with the wiretap files."
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He turned to Evelyn, offering her his arm.
"Now, my dear," Vincent said with a dark, triumphant smile. "Let’s go crash a press conference."