Chapter 17 - The Fire on the Pier
The first shot didn't come from Gabriel’s rifle.
It came from a high-powered Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifle stationed on the crane tower three hundred yards away.
The massive round struck the engine block of Volkov’s idling semi-truck with the concussive crack of a lightning strike. The diesel engine exploded into a blinding fireball, hurling the radiator fifty feet into the bay and pitching the cab onto its side in a shower of burning oil.
The pier erupted into absolute madness.
“AMBUSH!” a Russian voice roared through the shortwave channel, followed by the chaotic, deafening clatter of automatic fire as Volkov’s men sprayed the rooftops blindly.
Gabriel didn't wait for them to find cover.
He vaulted down the exterior fire escape, hitting the wet asphalt of the pier at a dead sprint, firing controlled three-round bursts from his carbine. Two Russian mercenaries guarding the container’s rear doors collapsed into the oily puddles before they could even level their weapons.
From the command van, Chloe watched the tactical screen in sheer, suffocating terror.
Muzzle flashes strobed across the harbor basin like angry fireflies. The audio feed was a wall of deafening sound—shouts in Russian, screams in Italian, the rhythmic, hammer-like thuds of Gabriel’s rifle cutting through the storm.
We have to go, Beatrice signed, her hand gripping Chloe’s shoulder with fierce, undeniable strength.
Chloe tore her headphones off. “What? No! Gabriel told us to stay inside the armored van!”
Beatrice pointed toward the pier.
Through the bulletproof windshield, Chloe saw what the surveillance cameras had missed: Arkady Volkov was dragging a heavy steel pry bar toward the release valve on the side of the shipping container.
He wasn't trying to open it.
He was trying to open the sea-valve line connected to the pier’s drainage basin—a high-pressure saltwater pipe designed to scuttle cargo in case of a federal raid. If he opened that valve, the container would flood with freezing bay water in less than two minutes.
He’s going to drown them to destroy the evidence, Beatrice signed, her hazel eyes blazing with a ferocious, righteous fury. Move the van, Chloe. NOW.
Chloe didn't think.
She vaulted over the center console into the driver’s seat of the three-ton armored GMC, jammed the electronic transmission into drive, and slammed her boot down on the accelerator.
The massive V8 roared. The tires caught traction on the freezing gravel, launching the armored vehicle out of the shadows like a guided missile.
Volkov turned, his eyes widening in shock as two blinding halogen high beams bore down on him through the swirling snow.
He raised his gold-plated Stechkin pistol, firing three rapid rounds into the windshield. The heavy bulletproof glass spiderwebbed into frosty white cracks, but the armor held.
Chloe didn't steer away.
She aimed the steel brush guard straight at the saltwater valve fixture, bracing her arms against the steering wheel.
CRASH.
The armored van struck the heavy cast-iron pipe at thirty miles an hour, shearing the manifold completely off the pier in an explosion of pressurized water, rusted iron, and flying concrete.
The impact knocked Volkov off his feet, tossing him across the slick timber of the pier like a ragdoll.
The van slammed to a halt against the container’s steel ribs, steam hissing from its crushed grille.
Chloe sat frozen, her chest heaving, the deployed airbag deflating slowly in her lap.
Beside her, Beatrice was already kicking her door open, stepping out onto the wet pier with an iron crowbar she had retrieved from the van’s emergency kit.
Outside, the gunfire had stopped.
Gabriel stood twenty feet away, surrounded by the bodies of the Russian syndicate. His face was streaked with soot, his shoulder bleeding from a bullet graze, but his eyes were wide with utter disbelief as he looked at the shattered water pipe, and then at the two women climbing out of the smoking van.
“Are you completely insane?!” Gabriel roared, sprinting toward them, dropping his empty rifle onto the wood. “I told you to stay in the van!”
Beatrice didn't even look at him. She tossed the heavy crowbar at his boots with a loud, metallic clatter.
May you like
She signed two words, sharp as a guillotine:
Open it.
