Chapter 9 - The Ambush at Pier 42
"Move it! Move it!" the man with the flashlight barked, his voice raspy and cruel. "The cop survived the night, and the politician canceled the euthanization order! The whole department is going to be swarming this district by sunrise!"
"What about the rest of the venomous stock?" one of the workers shouted back, pointing to a stack of plastic crates stamped Vanguard Biological. "We got twenty more timber rattlers and three cobras in the side bay!"
"Leave 'em!" the leader snarled. "Burn the bay before we pull out! I'm not going to federal prison over a bunch of damn snakes!"
I stepped out from behind a row of wooden crates, leveling my 9mm pistol directly at his chest.
"Police! Nobody move!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the metal rafters.
The three workers froze, their hands flying into the air. But the leader didn't panic. A slow, cruel smile spread across his scarred face.
"Officer Vance," he rasped, slowly lowering his flashlight. "I thought I cracked your skull hard enough to keep you in bed till tomorrow."
"You dropped this in the park," I said, holding up the tag fragment with my left hand while keeping my gun locked on his chest. "You're under arrest for federal wildlife trafficking, conspiracy, and attempted murder."
"Arrest?" The leader chuckled, a dark, raspy sound. He slowly stepped back toward the edge of the flatbed trailer. "Look around you, cop. You don't have a badge. You don't have backup. And you sure as hell don't have a tactical team."
He raised his hand and slammed his fist against the side of the truck cab.
From the dark corners of the warehouse, four more men stepped out from behind the crates, armed with short-barreled shotguns and heavy iron pipes. They instantly surrounded Sterling and me, cutting off our only exit toward the rear door.
"Drop the gun, cop," the leader commanded, pulling a heavy nickel-plated revolver from his coat. "Or your friend the politician dies first."
One of the goons shoved the barrel of a shotgun directly into the back of Sterling's head. Sterling went rigid, his eyes wide with fear.
I gritted my teeth, my mind calculating the horrific odds. Seven to two. No body armor. No radio.
Slowly, reluctantly, I began to lower the barrel of my gun toward the concrete floor.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic smash echoed from the high roof windows at the far end of the warehouse.
A streak of dark fur tore through the rain, shattering the glass skylight and landing heavily onto the metal roof of a shipping container ten feet above the floor.
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It was Titan.
He had leaped through the open window of Sterling's SUV, tracked my scent through the fog, scaled the fire escape ladder outside, and smashed through the glass like a dark thunderbolt.
