Chapter 8 - Shadows in the Port
-8-
The midnight rain had washed the city clean, leaving the sprawling asphalt of the Port of Newark slick and gleaming under the harsh amber glare of industrial floodlights. Rows of towering crane gantries stood like skeletal giants against the bruised night sky, hovering over endless stacks of brightly colored shipping containers that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Inside a sleek, bulletproof black SUV parked in the shadows of Berth 14, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers nervously tapping against my knee, while Dominic sat beside me in the back, his eyes locked onto a laptop screen displaying real-time satellite feeds and encrypted manifest data. In the front seat, two armed security operatives kept a vigilant watch on the perimeter, their hands resting near their tactical gear.
“Are you sure this is where the contact is meeting Victor’s proxy?” I asked, breaking the heavy silence inside the cabin.
Dominic didn't look up from the screen. “Victor’s encrypted communication logs pointed straight to this berth. Every Tuesday at midnight, a cargo freighter registered out of Panama unloads a container of unmanifested electronics and high-grade cryptographic hardware. For three years, Victor signed off on these shipments without my knowledge, funneling millions in contraband through my own distribution channels.”
He closed the laptop with a sharp snap and slid it into the side pocket.
“And now that Victor is locked away in a federal holding facility,” Dominic continued, his voice dangerously calm, “whoever is on the receiving end of these shipments is going to show up tonight expecting their usual clearance code.”
“And we’re going to give it to them?” I asked, turning to look at him.
“We’re going to find out who’s writing the checks,” Dominic replied, his dark eyes meeting mine. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol and checking the magazine with practiced, effortless precision before sliding it back into his holster. “Stay in the car, Elena. No matter what happens out there, you do not unlock these doors.”
Before I could argue, Dominic slipped out of the SUV and melted seamlessly into the deep shadows between the towering stacks of shipping containers.
I pressed my face against the cool glass of the window, watching his tall, dark silhouette move with lethal grace toward Berth 14. The wind whipped off the bay, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of salt water and diesel fuel. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Back at the mansion, Marcus was safely tucked into bed under the watchful eye of Mrs. Gable’s replacement, but here, out in the open expanse of the port docks, the danger felt raw, immediate, and inescapable.
Minutes ticked by like hours.
Down by the edge of the water, a massive cargo freighter stood moored to the concrete pier, its massive hull groaning against the rubber bumpers as rhythmic waves slapped below. A tall, thickset man in a dark trench coat emerged from the gangplank, looking around nervously before walking toward a designated drop-off point near Container 402.
From our vantage point, I watched as Dominic stepped out from behind a stack of steel containers, blocking the man’s path.
The stranger froze, his hand instinctively darting toward his coat pocket.
“Don't do it,” Dominic’s voice carried clearly across the quiet asphalt, sharpened by the acoustics of the open bay.
The man in the trench coat tried to pivot, pulling a compact submachine gun from his coat, but Dominic was already moving. In a blur of motion, Dominic closed the distance, striking the man’s wrist with a vicious, lightning-fast blow that sent the weapon clattering across the wet concrete.
Before the man could recover, Dominic swept his legs out from under him, pinning him hard against the side of a steel container with a heavy forearm pressed against his throat.
I held my breath, watching through the binoculars resting on the console.
“You’re late, Victor,” the man choked out, his voice strained and panicked as Dominic’s weight pressed down on him. “The shipment from the cartel is already unloaded. Where is the clearance code?”
Dominic leaned in close, his face inches from the man’s ear.
“Victor isn't here tonight,” Dominic said, his voice cold enough to freeze water. “And I think it’s time we talk about who you’ve been buying my shipping lanes from.”
The man’s eyes widened in sheer terror as he recognized the voice—the undisputed voice of the man the underworld thought was permanently deaf and broken.
May you like
“Cray...” the man breathed, the color draining entirely from his face.
Inside the SUV, I let out a long, shaky breath. The trap had been sprung, and the shadow syndicate pulling the strings behind Victor Strand had just walked right into the lion's den.
