Chapter 5 - Ambush in the Shadows
The rain returned with biblical fury as we hit the interstate. The wipers slapped frantically against the glass, struggling to clear the gray sheets of water cascading over the windshield.
In the back seat, Freya was hyperventilating, her forehead pressed against the cold window glass. "They’re going to kill us. Sterling doesn't leave loose ends. You don't know who he works with, Marilyn—he has people in the state police, people in port security..."
"Shut up, Freya," Spencer said, his eyes fixed on the spray of the eighteen-wheeler in front of us as he aggressively cut into the left lane, passing it at ninety miles an hour.
My phone was patched into the tactical channel with Hayes and Vance.
"Vance, where is base security?" I barked into the speaker.
"Dispatched, but they’re tied up with jurisdictional red tape," Vance answered, static eating at the edges of his voice. "Berth 14 is technically under civilian port authority control. The Savannah Police Department is ten minutes out, but Sterling’s crew has private contractors with forged federal badges. They’re claiming they’re executing an emergency DOD asset seizure."
"Classic contractor playbook," Spencer muttered. "Use confusion and overlapping jurisdictions to stall until the cargo is loaded onto the boat."
"Can the *Caspian Dawn* cast off without port authority clearance?" I asked.
"They already dropped the aft mooring lines," Hayes chimed in. "The pilot boat is standing by. If those crates hit the deck, they can be out of the channel before the Coast Guard can position a cutter to intercept."
"Not on my watch," I said.
Spencer took the exit ramp off I-95 with tires screeching, sliding through a puddle of standing water that sprayed twenty feet into the air. We blew past the industrial warehouses lining the approach to the Savannah River, the massive steel cranes of the shipping terminals rising into the gray sky like prehistoric skeletons.
We hit the port's perimeter checkpoint. The barrier arm was smashed in half, splintered yellow fiberglass lying across the wet asphalt. The private security guard was sitting on the ground outside his booth, clutching a bloody nose.
Spencer didn't slow down. He drove the truck straight through the breach, following the tire tracks pressed into the mud toward Berth 14.
"Down!" Spencer roared suddenly.
A sharp, deafening *crack* tore through the air.
The driver's side mirror exploded into a cloud of plastic and glass shards. A high-caliber round slammed into the A-pillar of the truck, leaving a deep, lead-streaked crater in the reinforced steel.
Spencer yanked the wheel hard to the right. The truck skidded sideways, slamming into a stack of empty shipping pallets, using them as a temporary shield against the gunfire.
"Stay down!" I screamed at Freya, who was curled into a ball on the floorboards, shrieking hysterically.
"Shooter on the catwalk of Crane 3," Spencer said, unholstering his weapon with absolute mechanical calmness. His heart rate didn't even seem to spike. This was what he had been trained for—years of special operations logistics security in the Persian Gulf. "High ground, bolt-action or semi-auto hunting rifle. He’s covering the loading zone."
I peered through the cracked windshield.
Fifty yards ahead, parked under the looming shadow of the *Caspian Dawn*, were the two black Suburbans. Four men in tactical rain gear were frantically operating a heavy forklift, hoisting a wooden crate stenciled with naval ordnance markings toward the ship’s cargo ramp.
Standing beside the lead vehicle, holding an umbrella and a satellite phone, was Richard Sterling.
He was dressed in an expensive charcoal wool coat, looking completely out of place against the grit and rust of the shipping docks. He was barking orders, checking his watch every three seconds.
"He’s loading the last crate," I said, drawing my service weapon from the center console. "If that ramp goes up, we lose the chain of custody."
"We don't let it go up," Spencer said. He looked at me, a wolfish, predatory grin breaking through his stoic features. "You take the ground crew, Sullivan. I’ll clear the crane."
"Copy," I said, checking the chamber. "Don't get shot. We haven't even opened the wedding gifts yet."
May you like
"Only the bad ones," he replied, kicking his door open into the roaring rain.
***