Chapter 7 - The Reckoning
Kozlov froze. The men around him drew their weapons, aiming wildly into the dark rigging of the crane structure.
High on the metal catwalk, Quinn stood in the driving rain, her rifle braced against the iron railing. The wind whipped her wet blonde hair across her face, but the red dot never wavered from the Russian’s skull.
"Drop your weapons," Quinn’s voice crackled through the dock’s public address system, echoing off the steel hulls of the cargo ships. "Homeland Security has intercepted your satellite coordinates. If a single shot is fired, the Coast Guard scuttles your ship."
Kozlov’s eyes darted toward the water. Out in the dark channel of Boston Harbor, three massive searchlights suddenly ignited, cutting through the rain with blinding white intensity. The deafening siren of a Coast Guard tactical cutter roared across the waves, followed by the deep thrum of a Blackhawk helicopter descending from the low cloud cover.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons and step away from the containers!" a loudspeaker boomed from the water.
Panic erupted on the dock. Kozlov’s men broke formation. Some threw their rifles onto the wet tarmac, hands raised; others scrambled back toward the ship’s gangway in a futile attempt to flee.
Kozlov, however, was a feral animal cornered in a trap. Snarling a curse in Russian, he whipped his weapon up—not at Cormac, but directly toward the crane platform where Quinn was perched.
He fired.
The bullet struck the steel railing next to Quinn, sending a shower of sparks into her face. The shockwave knocked her balance off on the rain-slicked metal. She slipped, her rifle clattering over the edge, and she caught the catwalk rail with only her left, uninjured arm, dangling thirty feet above the concrete dock.
"Quinn!" Cormac’s voice shattered the roar of the sirens.
Kozlov turned his gun toward Cormac, laughing maniacally through the rain. "Die with your empire, Sheridan!"
Before Kozlov could squeeze the trigger, a loud, erratic roar echoed from the warehouse. A yellow industrial forklift came tearing out of the loading bay at top speed, tires squealing against the wet concrete. Behind the wheel was Rory, screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman, his eyes bulging with sheer, hysterical adrenaline.
"Get out of the way!" Rory screamed.
The metal tines of the forklift plowed directly into the side of Kozlov’s luxury SUV, sending the two-ton vehicle spinning across the tarmac. The rear bumper slammed violently into Kozlov, sweeping his legs out from under him and pinning him against the wall of a shipping container. His gun clattered uselessly into the dark water of the harbor.
Kozlov screamed in agony, trapped under the crumpled steel. Rory slammed the brakes, killed the engine, and stumbled out of the driver's cab, panting, clutching a wrench like a club. "I got him! Boss, I got him!"
Cormac didn't even stop to praise the kid. He was already sprinting toward the crane ladder.
He climbed the slick iron rungs three at a time, his muscles burning, the rain lashing at his face. When he reached the upper platform, Quinn was still hanging on, her fingers turning white against the wet iron, her wounded shoulder bleeding freely through her tactical jacket.
"Hold on!" Cormac yelled, reaching over the railing.
He grabbed her wrist with both hands. The grip was ironclad. With a roar of effort, Cormac hauled her up over the safety barrier, pulling her body flush against his chest. They tumbled backward onto the metal decking together, gasping for air.
Quinn lay on top of him, her chest heaving, rain plastering her hair to her cheeks. She looked down into Cormac’s face. His charcoal suit was ruined, covered in grease, rainwater, and blood, but his dark eyes were burning with an intensity she had never seen before.
"I have you," Cormac breathed, his hands cupping her wet face. "I've got you. You're safe."
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Quinn stared at him through the torrential rain. The walls she had built around her heart for twelve long years—the cold, clinical armor that had kept her alive through torture, betrayal, and vengeance—crumbled entirely. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, her hands gripping his lapels as a ragged sob broke from her throat.
Cormac wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against his chest as the searchlights of the federal boats illuminated the harbor below, washing the city in pure, brilliant light.
