Chapter 22 - The Breach at Terminal Seven
The icy rain turned into sleet as Julian’s convoy of four black armored Suburbans roared onto the asphalt tarmac of Terminal 7.
The harbor was shrouded in thick, freezing sea mist. The massive container ship, Le Revenant, loomed against the black water like an iron mountain. Floodlights from the gantry cranes swung erratically in the wind, casting jagged, dancing shadows across the oil-slicked docks.
Julian stepped out into the biting cold, rack-cocking a suppressed tactical submachine gun before slinging it beneath his heavy coat. Beside him, Marco held an encrypted thermal tracker.
"Thermal scans show twenty heat signatures clustered around the primary cargo bay," Marco briefed, adjusting his headset. "Coast Guard tactical boats are holding a five-mile perimeter offshore, but they won't breach without federal maritime authorization. Laurent knows the legal jurisdictional grey area."
"Laurent doesn't care about maritime law," Julian said, his voice dropping into pure gravel. "He came here to die, or to kill me trying."
Julian signaled his operators. Moving in tight, two-man diamond formations, they glided across the pier, slipping beneath the shadow of the rusted cranes.
Suddenly, a blinding halogen spotlight flared atop the ship's bridge.
"Julian! Welcome back to the docks, mon ami!"
A voice boomed through the ship’s public address system, dripping with a thick French accent and unhinged malice. Standing on the ship’s gangway, clad in a white fur-lined trench coat, was Antoine Laurent. His hair was slicked back, a cigar burning bright orange between his teeth, holding an AK-47 loosely in his right hand.
"Ten years I spent in the jungle, Jules!" Laurent shouted over the screaming wind. "While you played the respectable gentleman in your glass towers! Married to a little nurse, raising a little girl... how soft the Great Wolf of Bellmont has become!"
Julian didn't shout back. He stepped into the light of the crane, standing tall and motionless, his gray eyes locking onto Laurent like twin gun barrels.
"You should have stayed in the jungle, Antoine," Julian said, his voice easily cutting through the squall. "Your men in Marseille are all serving life sentences. Your shipping lanes are gone. You came across the Atlantic with an empty boat and a suicide wish."
Laurent threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, manic bark. "An empty boat? You think I brought cargo to sell? Look down, Jules!"
At Laurent’s signal, a mercenary on the gangway threw a smoke flare down onto the pier. The red phosphor hiss illuminated a massive steel shipping crate resting directly beneath the crane. The crate's electronic timer was glowing red, counting down from fourteen minutes.
"Two tons of industrial ammonium nitrate, Julian," Laurent sneered through the loudspeaker. "Connected to a radio detonator. In fourteen minutes, Terminal 7 becomes a crater. The blast radius will shatter every window from here to St. Catherine's. Unless, of course, you come up here alone and beg on your knees."
Marco swore under his breath, raising his rifle. "Boss, that's enough explosive to wipe out the entire lower harbor. We have to pull back."
"If we pull back, the shockwave takes out the hospital’s lower foundations," Julian said, his pulse remaining icy and steady. "Marco, take the team, flank the starboard stern, and sever the ship's fuel lines. I’m going up the gangway."
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"Julian, that's suicide!"
"He wants me," Julian murmured, tossing his heavy overcoat aside into the sleet. "And I'm going to give him exactly what he asked for."
