Chapter 6 - The Pier 42 Ambush
The storm off the Atlantic coast had turned into a full-scale blizzard by midnight.
Pier 42 jutted out into the black, churning waters of Boston Harbor like a dark, decaying tooth. The old corrugated iron warehouse at the end of the wooden dock shuddered under the impact of twenty-foot waves, its rusted tin roof groaning against the gale-force winds.
I stood inside the shadow of a rusted shipping container fifty yards from the main entrance, wrapped in my heavy coat with the federal bulletproof vest pulled tight across my chest.
Beside me, Agent Miller was coordinating four federal tactical units via encrypted earpiece.
"Alpha team is in position on the north catwalk," Miller whispered into her radio. "Bravo team, hold your fire until we confirm the target is inside the primary communications office."
"She’s inside," I said, pointing through the swirling snow at a second-story window where a dim amber light flickered through the frosted glass. "That’s where the marine radio towers route their signals. You can see the satellite array on the roof turning."
Through the snow, I saw two armed men in heavy winter parkas walking the perimeter of the dock, their submachine guns slung over their shoulders. They weren't local mobsters; their movement was military—precise, synchronized, and completely cold. Vanguard Logistics mercenaries.
"We go on my mark," Miller said, unclipping her sidearm.
Before she could give the command, a sharp, metallic CLACK echoed from the darkness directly behind us.
"Don't move, ladies," a smooth, cultured voice said from the shadow of the container.
I froze.
Stepping out from the blizzard was Dr. Pendleton.
He wasn't in handcuffs. He wasn't in federal custody. He was wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat, holding a sleek black suppressed pistol aimed directly at Agent Miller’s head. Beside him stood two armed men wearing night-vision goggles.
"Did you really think federal marshals could hold a man who knows which judges in the First Circuit have offshore accounts in St. Kitts?" Pendleton chuckled, his teeth white against his dark scarf. "Agent Miller, you should have stayed in your office writing reports. And Bridget..."
He turned the suppressed pistol toward my face.
"You should have stuck to cleaning toilets, my dear. You have caused me an extraordinary amount of paperwork."
"Where is Julianna?" I asked, taking a slow step to the left, trying to position my body between Pendleton's gun and the heavy iron corner of the shipping container.
"Mrs. Costello is upstairs finalizing the wire transfer that will turn the Boston Port Authority into a private subsidiary by sunrise," Pendleton smiled. "And you two are going to be found washed up on the rocks near Deer Island—tragic victims of a winter boating accident."
He raised his finger to the trigger.
BANG.
A high-caliber rifle shot echoed through the roar of the storm from the top of the radio tower!
Pendleton’s head snapped back as a dark hole appeared in the center of his forehead. He collapsed backward into the snow like a felled oak tree, his gun clattering against the icy dock.
The two mercenaries turned in panic, raising their weapons toward the radio tower, but before they could squeeze off a single round, a heavy black SUV burst through the wooden perimeter gates of the pier!
The vehicle smashed through the chain-link fence in a shower of sparks, its high beams blinding the guards as it slid across the icy dock and slammed directly into the two mercenaries, pinning them against the steel container!
The driver’s door flew open.
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Dominic Costello stepped out into the blizzard, holding a heavy double-barreled shotgun in his gloved hands, his face pale, his wool blanket replaced by a dark tactical coat.
"Get in!" Dominic roared through the howling wind, his voice cutting through the storm like thunder. "The house is burning down, Bridget! Let’s finish it!"
