Chapter 7 - The Camden Shipyard
The abandoned Camden shipyard sat on the desolate banks of the Delaware River like a rusted skeleton of the industrial age. Towering cranes loomed against the gray afternoon sky, their cables swaying in the bitter winter wind.
Two miles from the main gate, our convoy of three matte-black suburban SUVs pulled off the highway and parked behind a grove of leafless oak trees.
Inside the lead vehicle, Frankie unclipped an MP5 submachine gun from its rack, checked the magazine, and handed me a tactical vest.
“We’ve got thermal imaging drones in the air,” Frankie reported, tapping a ruggedized tablet screen. “There are at least twelve armed guards patrolling the perimeter fence. The main office building—the old administrative block—is heavily fortified. Heat signatures indicate three people inside the basement holding cells.”
I slipped the tactical vest over my white shirt and silk tie, securing the straps across my chest. I loaded two spare magazines into my belt pouches.
“Is Julian one of them?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
“Thermal can’t tell us who it is, Boss,” Frankie replied. “But the cell block is locked down tight. If he’s in there, he’s alive.”
“Move out,” I ordered.
We didn't use the front gates. That’s what amateurs do.
Under the cover of a freezing afternoon fog rolling off the river, six of us scaled the rusted perimeter fence behind the dry docks, moving with the silent, deadly precision of professional operators. We cleared the outer storage containers in under four minutes, neutralizing two perimeter guards with suppressed sidearms before they even hit the frozen gravel.
By 3:15 PM, we reached the rear entrance of the administrative building.
The heavy steel door was locked with a digital keypad. Frankie stepped up, pulled a portable decoding device from his thigh pouch, and plugged it into the service port. Three seconds later, the green light flashed, and the heavy door clicked open.
We swarmed inside.
The interior was damp, dark, and smelled of rust and stagnant water. We moved down the concrete hallway in a tight diamond formation, clearing each empty office until we reached the descending stairwell marked SUB-LEVEL 1: SECURITY.
As we descended into the basement, the air grew colder.
The sound of dripping water echoed off the concrete walls. Ahead of us was a heavy iron door with a reinforced observation window. Standing outside the door, smoking a cigarette and leaning against a concrete pillar, was a heavily tattooed enforcer from the Philadelphia Moretti crew.
He didn't even have time to drop his cigarette.
Frankie stepped around the corner, his suppressed MP5 barking twice with a dull thip-thip. The guard dropped instantly, sliding down the concrete pillar into a dark red puddle.
I rushed forward, grabbed the heavy iron ring on the cell door, and yanked it open.
The room inside was a concrete box lit by a single flickering overhead bulb. In the center of the room, chained to a heavy steel chair by his wrists and ankles, sat a man.
His face was covered in bruises, his dark hair matted with dried blood, and his clothes torn to shreds.
He slowly lifted his head, blinking against the harsh light.
Gray eyes. With a thin ring of gold around the iris.
“Michael...?” a weak, cracked voice rasped from the broken lips.
May you like
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands shaking as I pulled a hunting knife from my boot and slashed the heavy zip-ties binding his wrists.
“I’m here, little brother,” I whispered, pulling Julian into my arms as the chains hit the concrete floor with a deafening crash. “I’ve got you.”
