Chapter 7
“The only thing I’m buying you is a life sentence in a federal penitentiary,” Alex said. “Miller knows. The vet knows. The evidence is already logged.”
Vance’s expression changed instantly. The desperation vanished, replaced by a cold, murderous finality.
“Then you’re a fool, Alex,” Vance whispered.
In a split second, Vance didn't draw his gun—he lunged to the side, throwing his heavy flashlight directly at Alex’s face.
Alex ducked, the flashlight shattering against the brick wall behind him. At the same moment, Yuri drew a heavy, silenced automatic pistol from beneath his coat, his first shot tearing through the darkness.
Thwip.
The bullet chipped the concrete near Alex’s shoulder, showering him with sharp dust. Alex fired back, two rapid shots aimed at Yuri’s torso.
Boom! Boom!
The muzzle flashes illuminated the basement like bursts of lightning. The deafening roar of the unsuppressed 9mm rounds echoed off the low concrete ceiling, completely overpowering the sound of the rain outside.
Yuri grunted, one of Alex’s rounds catching him in the shoulder, spinning him around. He stumbled backward against a row of old wooden crates, his gun flying from his grip and clattering into the dark recesses of the basement.
But Vance had already used the distraction. Alex turned just in time to see the heavy silhouette of the captain rushing him from the blind side. Vance tackled Alex around the waist, slamming him hard against the concrete floor.
Alex’s Glock spun out of his hand, sliding away across the wet concrete.
The two men scrambled in the darkness, a brutal, desperate wrestling match fueled by survival and rage. Vance was older, but he was heavier, using his bulk to pin Alex down. He rained heavy, gloved fists down onto Alex’s face, cracking his lip and sending a spray of blood across the floor.
“You should have let him die, Alex!” Vance roared, his hands moving from Alex’s face down to his throat, squeezing with a desperate, crushing strength. “You should have just let him go!”
Alex choked, his vision beginning to blur around the edges as Vance’s thumbs dug deep into his trachea. He clawed at Vance’s face, his fingers tearing at the captain’s eyes, but Vance held on with the strength of a man who knew his life was over if he let go.
Alex’s hands swept across the floor, desperately searching for his gun, for a pipe, for anything to break the stranglehold. His fingers brushed against something cold, sharp, and metallic.
It was the stainless-steel bracket of the spring-trap that Vance had come to remove.
With his remaining strength, Alex gripped the heavy metal bracket and swung it upward with a blind, desperate arc.
Crack.
The metal edge struck Vance squarely across the temple. The captain gasped, his grip on Alex’s throat instantly loosening as his eyes rolled back. He collapsed sideways onto the concrete, unconscious and bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead.
Alex rolled over, coughing violently, drawing desperate, ragged lungfuls of air back into his burning chest. He scrambled to his feet, locating his flashlight and his Glock in the debris.
He shined the light on Vance, who was completely out, snoring heavily from the concussion. He then swung the light toward the crates where Yuri had fallen.
Yuri was gone. A trail of dark, heavy blood led away from the crates toward the back exit of the basement—a rusted metal door that led up to the old cargo docks on the riverbank.
Alex didn’t hesitate. He wiped the blood from his split lip, gripped his weapon, and pursued the trail into the storm.
Part VI: The Storm at Dock 14
The door opened into the full fury of the night. The rain was a torrential downpour now, blinding and cold, driven by a wind that whipped off the black surface of the river.
Alex stepped out onto the rusted iron gantries of the old loading docks. The structure creaked and groaned under the assault of the storm. Ahead of him, roughly fifty yards down the pier, he could see the dark, staggering shape of Yuri, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he made his way toward a massive, enclosed warehouse labeled Dock 14.
The warehouse was a cavernous structure, its corrugated metal walls rattling in the wind. This was the hub. This was where the shipment was supposed to land.
Alex ran down the slippery iron stairs, his boots splashing through deep puddles. “Stop! Police!” he yelled into the wind, but his voice was completely swallowed by the roar of the storm.
Yuri reached the small side door of the warehouse and slipped inside.
Alex arrived a few seconds later. He pressed his back against the metal wall next to the door, listening. Inside, he could hear the low, rhythmic thrum of a large diesel engine—a generator or a boat idling nearby. Dock 14 had direct water access; an internal slip allowed smuggling boats to pull directly into the center of the building to unload cargo away from prying eyes.
