Chapter 35 - Pier Forty-Two
The rain turned into a torrential downpour as the truck cut its headlights and rolled onto the cracked concrete of Pier Forty-Two.
Rusted shipping containers formed towering, artificial canyons that blocked the wind sweeping in off the harbor.
The smell of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet rust hung thick in the freezing air.
Ahead, the corrugated steel doors of Dry Dock Three were wide open, casting a sick yellow glow across the puddles.
Claire stepped down from the truck, her combat rifle rested against her shoulder, rain streaming off the rim of her tactical cap.
"Miller, set an overwatch position on the gantry crane," Claire commanded in a low whisper over the team comms. "Thomas, you stay in the vehicle."
"I’m coming with you," Thomas said, stepping out into the rain, his wound crudely bandaged but his grip on a spare sidearm steady.
"You're barely standing, Tommy," Claire countered, turning to face him under the storm.
"I know how the interior of that vessel is laid out, Claire," he insisted, his jaw set with the familiar stubbornness of their youth. "You go in blind, and you'll trigger the scuttle charges before you even reach the control room."
Claire looked at her brother for two long seconds, recognizing the professional resolve in his eyes.
"One step behind me," she conceded. "If your mind slips, I put you down. Understood?"
"Understood," Thomas nodded without hesitation.
They moved through the shadow of the shipping containers like twin phantoms, keeping low beneath the security cameras.
Two private contractors in gray combat gear stood near the gangway leading down into the dry dock pit.
Claire signaled with two fingers, pointing toward the man on the left while Thomas moved toward the right.
They struck simultaneously, moving without a sound through the driving rain.
Claire wrapped an arm around her target's throat, driving her combat knife through his tactical vest into the brachial artery, taking him down before he could scream.
A split second later, Thomas snapped the second guard's neck with a sharp, fluid twist of his hands, easing the body down into the shadows.
"Clear," Thomas whispered, his breathing steady despite the physical exertion.
They peered over the edge of the railing into the massive basin of Dry Dock Three.
Sitting in the cradle of the concrete dock was a sleek, matte-black submarine, approximately one hundred and fifty feet long, devoid of any national markings.
Dozens of armed men were loading heavy aluminum flight cases onto the vessel's forward hatch.
Near the conning tower stood Margaret Vance, clutching an umbrella while an armed escort shielded her from the wind.
Beside her, two mercenaries dragged a bloodied, zip-tied man across the metal catwalk.
"Admiral Hayes," Claire hissed through her teeth.
The old admiral was barely conscious, his uniform torn and stained with grease, but his head remained stubbornly lifted.
Behind them stepped a towering figure wrapped in an oilskin coat, his scarred face illuminated by the work lights.
David Vance.
The prodigal monster of the Vance dynasty had survived the explosion on the Hudson, his right arm bound in a heavy tactical sling, but his presence as commanding as ever.
"Get the Admiral into the command module!" David shouted over the roar of the diesel generators. "Seal the hatches! We dive the moment the pumps fill the bay!"
"Cap, I have David in my crosshairs," Miller’s voice crackled through the earpiece from his sniper perch. "Take the shot?"
"Negative, Miller," Claire replied instantly. "He’s standing too close to Hayes. If you miss by an inch, Hayes takes the round."
"Then what's the play, Captain?"
May you like
Claire checked the chamber of her rifle, water running down the black barrel.
"We flood the dock ourselves," Claire said coldly. "And we drown them before they can cast off."
