Chapter 8
Alex slipped through the door, his weapon raised.
The interior of Dock 14 was vast, filled with towering rows of shipping pallets covered in heavy black tarpaulins. The only light came from a few dim, amber safety lamps hanging from the high steel rafters. In the center of the warehouse was a deep, rectangular cut in the concrete floor—the water slip. A sleek, high-powered black transport boat was tied to the iron cleats, its twin engines purring softly.
Yuri was leaning against a stack of crates near the boat, three of his men—heavy-set guards in dark tactical gear—surrounding him. They were already moving large, waterproof military duffel bags from the boat’s deck onto a forklift.
“We have a problem,” Yuri was panting, his face pale from blood loss as one of his men quickly wrapped a white cloth around his shoulder. “Vance is down. The handler, Voronov, is here. He knows about the dock.”
The guards immediately dropped what they were doing, drawing automatic submachine guns from beneath their rain jackets.
“Find him,” Yuri ordered, his voice snarling with pain. “Kill him and dump his body in the river with the anchor chains. We leave the rest of the cargo—take the high-value bags and get the boat out of here now.”
Alex knew he couldn't face four heavily armed men in an open firefight with a single handgun. He needed to disrupt their coordination.
He slipped silently between the long rows of pallets, moving toward the main electrical breaker panel he had spotted near the entrance. He reached the heavy gray box, gripped the main master switch, and pulled it down with a sharp, heavy jerk.
Clunk.
The amber lights died instantly. The warehouse was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness, save for the faint, gray light filtering through the high skylights from the storm outside.
“What the hell!” one of the guards shouted from the center of the floor.
“It’s him! Switch to night sights! Spread out!” another yelled.
The beams of several high-intensity tactical lights sliced through the darkness, scanning the aisles between the pallets. Alex stayed low, moving like a shadow through the maze of cargo. He knew this environment—he had trained in warehouses like this with Rex hundreds of times.
But as he moved, he realized his tactical disadvantage. Rex was usually his eyes and ears in the dark. Without the dog’s incredible sense of smell and hearing to pinpoint the targets before they saw him, Alex was hunting blind.
A flashlight beam suddenly swept over the crate right above Alex’s head.
“Over here! Aisle four!” a guard screamed.
A split second later, a deafening torrent of automatic gunfire erupted.
Trrrrrt! Trrrrrt!
Dozens of high-velocity rounds tore through the wooden pallets, sending a shower of splinters, plastic wrapping, and white powder into the air. Alex threw himself to the concrete floor, rolling backward as the bullets chewed up the space he had occupied a moment before.
He popped up from behind a steel support column and fired three shots at the source of the muzzle flash.
Boom! Boom! ... Boom!
A sharp cry echoed in the dark as one of the guards fell, his flashlight clattering onto the concrete, spinning wildly and illuminating the boots of the second guard who was rushing Alex’s position.
Alex tried to lock on, but a second stream of fire from a different angle forced him to pin himself behind the steel beam.
Trrrrrt!
The bullets sparked off the steel column, the vibrations numbing Alex’s hands. He was pinned. The two remaining guards were flanking him from both sides, using suppressing fire to keep him trapped while they closed the distance. He could hear their heavy boots advancing on the wet concrete.
Thirty feet. Twenty feet.
Alex checked his magazine. He had four rounds left. He was out of options, out of time, and out of backup.
Suddenly, from the far entrance of the warehouse, a sound broke through the gunfire—a sound that didn't belong to the storm, the men, or the weapons.
It was a deep, resonant, terrifying roar. A savage, guttural canine bark that shook the metal walls of the building.
Part VII: The Beast of the Night
The guards stopped firing, their flashlight beams instantly whipping around toward the main entrance door.
“What the hell was that?” one of them whispered, his voice cracking with sudden, primal fear. “I thought you said the dog was dead!”
Alex’s heart leaped into his throat. He looked toward the dim silhouette of the doorway.
Standing in the frame, illuminated by the flashes of lightning from the storm outside, was a massive, black-and-tan shape. His chest was wrapped in white surgical bandages, already stained with a hint of crimson from his fresh incisions, and a clear plastic IV catheter line was trailing from his front paw, torn at the middle.
