Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Docks
Panic gripped Sterling’s enforcers as the sparks illuminated the shadows where I stood framed against the towering stacks of steel containers. The armed guards raised their sidearms, sweeping the area wildly, their breathing heavy and erratic. They were street thugs masquerading as corporate security, lacking discipline and tactical cohesion.
"Find him! Shoot anything that moves!" Sterling screamed, scrambling desperately toward the open door of the sedan while clutching a leather briefcase to his chest.
I dropped low to the gravel, utilizing the corrugated steel wall of a twenty-foot shipping container as cover. The first guard rushed past my position, his pistol extended, shouting instructions to his partner. As he cleared the corner, I stepped out from the blind spot, hooked his weapon arm with my left hand, and drove a swift, crushing palm strike upward into his chin. He folded instantly, dropping his firearm before hitting the asphalt without a sound.
The second guard heard the dull thud and spun around, squeezing off two panicked rounds that ricocheted harmlessly off the metal container inches above my head. The muzzle flash gave away his exact position in the dim light of the warehouse overhang. I closed the distance in three explosive strides, ducked beneath his wild swing, and swept his legs out from under him, driving my knee down to pin his shoulder firmly to the ground.
"Who sent you? Who else is on the payroll?" I demanded, pressing my weight against his chest until he gasped for air.
"I don't know! Just—just money! Sterling pays us in cash to clear the docks!" the man choked out, his eyes wide with stark terror.
Across the open concrete expanse, Sterling had managed to slide behind the wheel of the sedan, slamming the gearshift into reverse with tires screeching against the pavement. He wasn't going to wait for his men. He intended to abandon them to save his own skin and fly out of the country before the federal net tightened completely.
I left the pinned guard, sprang across the gap between the shipping containers, and sprinted toward the main access gate where Sterling's car had to pass to escape the yard. Knowing the automated security gates were currently locked down by federal override codes, Sterling would be forced to ram the reinforced hydraulic barrier or find himself trapped dead-end against the river wall.
As the sedan careened toward the exit gate, the heavy iron bars remained securely locked in place. Sterling slammed on the brakes, the vehicle spinning ninety degrees before crashing hard into a concrete security pillar, crumpling the front passenger fender. He threw the door open, clutching his briefcase, and began running frantically on foot toward a small motorboat moored at the rotting wooden pier.
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I stepped out from behind the security booth, blocking his only path to the water.
"End of the line, Sterling," I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the roaring wind off the river.
