Chapter 13 - Midnight at Pier 54
A heavy sea fog rolled off the Atlantic, creeping across the mouth of the Hudson like a shroud of grey wool. The skeletal steel silhouettes of gantry cranes loomed against the misty black sky like prehistoric beasts.
Pier 54 was completely dark, save for the flickering amber halogen lamps mounted on the perimeter fences.
Out in the black water, the massive bulk of *The Leviathan* was already tethered to the concrete pilings, its rusted red hull groaning against the rubber fenders as the tide swayed. On the wharf below, six black cargo vans sat with their engines idling, exhaust pipes puffing white clouds into the freezing night air.
Dozens of men dressed in dark tactical gear and armed with automatic rifles patrolled the loading ramps.
Four hundred yards away, on the roof of a cold-storage warehouse, Dominic peered through a thermal spotting scope. Beside him, Harper lay prone on a Kevlar mat, clad in black tactical trousers, combat boots, and an insulated windbreaker with her hair braided tightly back.
Beside her lay the 9mm pistol Dominic had trained her with, along with extra magazines secured to her utility belt.
"Thermal scans show seventy-eight heat signatures inside two forty-foot reefer containers on the stern deck," Lucas reported over the encrypted comms channel. "The temperature controls have been overridden. If they don't get fresh air within two hours, they’ll suffocate."
Harper’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. "Where is Salvatore?"
Dominic adjusted the dial on the scope. "Container crane three. There’s a mobile command vehicle parked underneath. I see five guards... and there he is."
Harper leaned over Dominic’s shoulder, pressing her cheek close to his to look through the secondary optic.
Salvatore Castiglione was sixty-five years old, but he carried himself with the predatory stillness of an old wolf. Dressed in a long cashmere coat with a fur collar, he stood beneath the halogen light, puffing on a cigar while screaming into a satellite phone.
Even from four hundred yards, Harper could see the resemblance to her mother’s features—the high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose. But where Clara’s face had held gentleness and grace, Salvatore’s was twisted with bitter, decaying venom.
"The Corsican transport team has arrived," Lucas muttered. "Two speedboats just pulled into the secondary slipway. They’re preparing to crack the container locks."
"Dominic," Harper whispered, her hand finding his gloved fingers on the cold concrete. "If we open fire from here, the crossfire could hit the containers."
"I know," Dominic said softly. He turned his head, his face inches from hers in the darkness. "We split the field. Team Alpha takes the perimeter guards with suppressed rifles. Lucas leads Team Bravo to secure the containers and establish a medical corridor."
"And you and I?" Harper asked.
Dominic’s gray eyes glittered like polished daggers in the moonlight. "You and I go straight for the throat. We take the command vehicle. We take Salvatore."
"He will expect you to breach from the gate," Harper observed, her mind analyzing the tactical layout with chilling clarity. "The west side of the pier has an old timber catwalk used by maintenance crews. It runs directly beneath the crane platform. If we take the catwalk, we come up behind his personal security detail."
Dominic stared at her, an incredulous, fiercely proud grin spreading across his face. "Where did you learn port logistics?"
"My grandfather owned them, Dominic," Harper said with a grim smile. "And my mother made me memorize the harbor blueprints before I knew how to ride a bicycle. She always told me that if the monsters ever came for me, the water would be my ally."
Dominic reached out, his thumb tracing the fierce line of her lips. "Then let's take your harbor back, Miss Bennett."
He tapped his throat mic. "Alpha, Bravo, engage on my mark. Three... two... one. Execute."
A series of muffled *thwip-thwip-thwip* sounds echoed across the pier as suppressed sniper fire dropped the three guards stationed at the perimeter gates simultaneously. Their bodies fell into the wet gravel without a scream.
"Move!" Dominic whispered.
They slipped down the warehouse fire escape like twin shadows, crossing the wet asphalt toward the rotting timber catwalk that hung over the black, churning waters of the Hudson.
The sea wind was biting, carrying the stink of diesel and rotting kelp. Harper moved with cat-like silence, her boots finding purchase on the slick, rusted bolts of the scaffolding. Behind her, Dominic moved with the lethality of a panther, his submachine gun slung across his chest, his eyes scanning every angle above them.
Directly overhead, heavy footsteps thudded against the steel decking of the crane platform.
"Hurry up with those doors!" a voice barked in French. "The coast guard radar sweep passes in thirty minutes!"
Harper reached the ladder leading up to the crane's engine bay. She looked at Dominic and nodded.
Dominic pulled a flashbang grenade from his chest rig, yanked the pin with his teeth, and hurled it over the lip of the platform.
A deafening *BANG* and a blinding burst of white light shattered the midnight darkness, instantly followed by screams of disorientation.
Dominic vaulted up the ladder first, his weapon barking twice—*pop-pop*—dropping the two Corsican guards who were clutching their blinded eyes. Harper came up right behind him, drawing her 9mm with both hands, clearing the corner.
A third guard lunged at her with a combat knife.
Harper didn't freeze. Instinct, forged by months of terror and hardened by the fire of Blackwood, took over. She side-stepped his lunging strike, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it downward with the defensive technique Dominic had drilled into her at the Foundry.
The man grunted in shock as his balance broke.
Harper drove her knee violently into his groin, brought the butt of her pistol down hard against the bridge of his nose, and shove him backward over the safety railing.
With a sickening splash, the man vanished into the freezing black river forty feet below.
Dominic turned, witnessing the final second of the fight. His eyes dilated with dark appreciation. "Remind me never to make you angry."
"You already know what happens," Harper replied, catching her breath. "I slap you."
"A lesson I will cherish forever," he growled.
Suddenly, a volley of automatic gunfire ripped through the corrugated steel walls of the crane housing, showering them in sparks and shrapnel.
"Vale!" a voice roared from below, amplified by a megaphone. It was Salvatore. "You arrogant son of a bitch! Did you really think you could take my empire with a Pennsylvania serving girl?!"
Harper and Dominic dropped behind an industrial winch as bullets chewed the steel inches above their heads.
"Salvatore is pinned behind the armored van!" Lucas reported over the radio, the sounds of heavy gunfire echoing through the channel. "Bravo has secured the containers! Medical teams are breaching the reefers now—the victims are alive! But the Corsicans are laying down heavy suppression fire on our flank!"
Dominic checked his magazine. "We have to flush him out."
"He wants me, Dominic," Harper said, her voice dropping into a deadly calm as she reloaded her pistol. "He’s been hunting my mother for thirty years, and now he thinks he has the daughter cornered. He won't leave without my head."
"Harper, no," Dominic said fiercely, grabbing her wrist. His fingers were tight, his gray eyes pleading with an agony she had never seen in him. "I will not let you walk into his crosshairs."
"I’m not walking into his crosshairs," Harper said, reaching out to cup his rough cheek with her palm. Her hazel eyes were ablaze with absolute trust. "I’m giving you the clean shot. Trust me, Dominic. Trust your partner."
Dominic looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the queen who had risen from the ashes of abuse and poverty, unbroken and untamed.
Slowly, his grip softened. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "I trust you with my life."
May you like
"Then don't miss," Harper whispered.
***