Chapter 6 - The Assault on Dock 42
The thunderstorm over the New Jersey coast raged like an engine of war. Heavy rain beat against the windshield of the armored SUV as we pulled into the shadow of the rusted cranes at Dock 42.
Through the night-vision binoculars, the abandoned shipping terminal looked like a fortress. Eight armed guards stood on the perimeter catwalks, holding automatic rifles. Inside the main office tower on the third floor, a single light burned behind smoked glass windows.
Beside me in the backseat, Ethan was strapping on a tactical vest.
“You don't have to go inside, Ethan,” I said, adjusting the silencer on my secondary pistol. “Your father hired me to keep you safe.”
Ethan looked at me, his dark eyes fierce and unwavering in the dim light of the dashboard. “You saved my life twice tonight. You saved my family’s honor. You think I’m going to let you walk into a death trap alone?”
A faint, subtle warmth spread through my chest, cutting through the freezing rain outside. “Just stay behind me. I don't like losing clients.”
“I’m not just your client anymore,” Ethan whispered softly, his fingers brushing against mine for a brief, electric second. “Let’s bring my aunt home.”
We moved like ghosts through the storm.
Vance’s perimeter guards never knew what hit them. I took out the two catwalk sentries with silent dart strikes, while Ethan and our three loyal operators breached the side entry door using thermal charges.
We cleared the ground floor in absolute silence—moving through rows of rusting shipping containers filled with illegal contraband.
As we reached the iron staircase leading up to the third-floor office, raised voices echoed from above.
“Where is the signal from Reynolds?!” a harsh voice demanded. It belonged to Marcus Vance—the ruthless head of the rival family. “He was supposed to confirm Grant’s death an hour ago!”
“Relax, Marcus,” another familiar, sleazy voice replied. Director Paul Whitaker. “My men breached the cellar. Grant Blackwood is dead, Ethan is dead, and the rookie girl probably died crying in a corner. As soon as the sun comes up, we file the emergency probate papers and seize the Blackwood shipping lines.”
In the corner of the third-floor room, tied to an iron chair with IV lines still taped to her arm, was Elena—Tyler’s frail, exhausted mother.
“She’s alive,” Ethan whispered, his hand tightening on his weapon.
May you like
“On my signal,” I whispered back. “I take Whitaker. You take Vance. Cover the door.”
I pulled a flashbang grenade from my vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the upper transom window.
