Chapter 6 - The Midnight Dock
The salt wind off Boston Harbor carried the sharp, metallic tang of diesel fuel and incoming storm clouds. Pier 4 was plunged into darkness, save for the flickering sodium-vapor floodlights mounted on the massive gantry cranes.
Down on the tarmac, four black SUVs were idling near the water's edge. A massive container ship, the Volga Star, loomed against the pier, its dark steel hull rising like a leviathan out of the churning black water.
Inside the warehouse office overlooking the docks, Cormac adjusted the earpiece hidden beneath his dark wool coat. Beside him stood Quinn, dressed in black tactical fatigues, a suppressed submachine gun slung across her chest. Her injured shoulder was heavily bandaged, but her grip on the weapon was rock-steady.
Behind them, tied to a metal support pillar with steel cable, sat Declan Sheridan. His face was a battered mask of purple bruises, his breathing ragged.
"You're walking into a slaughterhouse, nephew," Declan coughed, grinning through bloody teeth. "Viktor Kozlov brought thirty men on that ship. You have a handful of dock guards and a broken secretary. You can't stop this shipment."
"I don't need to stop it," Cormac said quietly, checking his watch. "I just need to redirect it."
Quinn tapped rapidly on the keyboard of a portable military-grade laptop set up on a wooden crate. "I cracked the satellite phone's encryption twenty minutes ago. Declan's signature on the manifest has been rerouted through a federal whistleblower portal. Homeland Security and the Coast Guard have already boxed the harbor mouth. If a single weapon leaves that hull, it falls under federal jurisdiction."
Declan’s sneer vanished, replaced by sheer, dumbfounded horror. "You... you called the feds on your own docks?"
"They aren't my docks anymore, Declan," Cormac said, turning toward him with cold eyes. "I signed Pier 4 over to the Massachusetts Port Authority two hours ago. My legitimate corporate operations moved to South Harbor this morning. You and your Russian friends are trespassing on state property."
Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the warehouse swung open. Rory burst in, carrying an assault rifle that looked slightly too big for him, but his expression was no longer that of a terrified golden retriever. The kid had found his nerve.
"Boss! Kozlov’s men are offloading the first container!" Rory reported, breathing hard. "They brought forklifts. They're moving crates of military-grade explosives onto flatbeds."
"Where are the Coast Guard cutters?" Cormac asked Quinn.
"Three miles out, holding position outside radar range," Quinn replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "They're waiting for the primary signal—proof of open contraband."
"Then let's give them their proof," Cormac said, drawing his Glock.
He looked at Quinn. "You stay here. Oversee the uplink."
Quinn stood up, rack-sliding her submachine gun with a sharp, metallic clack. "I didn't spend ten years surviving Fall River to watch you play hero from a window, Cormac. Declan's men took my mother. I finish this."
Cormac looked into her fierce, unbroken eyes. He knew there was no stopping her. She wasn't a pawn to be protected in a tower; she was his equal, a storm in her own right.
"Watch my six," Cormac said.
"Always," she replied softly.
They moved out into the cold night. The rain had begun to fall in heavy, freezing sheets, slicking the concrete tarmac. They moved between stacks of shipping containers like ghosts, using the shadows cast by the gantry cranes to mask their approach.
Near the stern of the Volga Star, a dozen armed men in Russian naval coats were barking orders in Cyrillic as a massive steel container swung downward on crane cables. Standing beneath the crane was Viktor Kozlov—a scarred, towering man with a silver tooth and a heavy fur-collared coat.
"Faster!" Kozlov shouted in broken English. "The harbor patrol changes shifts at twelve-thirty! Move the crates!"
Cormac stepped out from behind a red shipping container, his silhouette illuminated by the harsh glare of a crane spotlight.
"Looking for a shipping clearance, Kozlov?" Cormac’s voice rang out, clear and calm over the rumble of the diesel engines.
Kozlov spun around, his hand dropping toward a holstered automatic pistol. "Sheridan? Where is your uncle?"
"Declan had a sudden change of career," Cormac said, stepping forward into the light. "And your shipment is canceled."
Kozlov sneered, raising his hand to signal his men. "You are alone, boy. Your father was smart enough to fear us. You are an arrogant fool."
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"He isn't alone," a cold, feminine voice echoed from the shadows of the crane gantry above.
A single red laser dot appeared on the center of Kozlov’s forehead.
