Chapter 6 - The Battle of Dock 42
The white Volvo shot backward through the wooden chain-link fence, crashing through the perimeter barrier of Dock 42 in a shower of splintered wood and flying wire.
Clare spun the wheel, straightening the smoking car as she sped down the wide asphalt lane separating the massive corrugated iron shipping warehouses. Bullet holes stitched across her rear window, but the dark fog rolling off Lake Michigan swallowed her vehicle before the contractors could line up another shot.
She slammed on the brakes outside the three-story brick structure marked Harbor Master - Pier 9.
Clare threw the door open, stumbling into the freezing rain, running up the exterior metal staircase. She threw open the heavy oak door of the office.
An elderly black man with grey hair and a weathered face stood behind a desk, holding a heavy revolver pointed at her chest. "Who the hell are you?"
Clare held up her hands, gasping for air, rain dripping from her hair. "Elijah Drake?"
The old man didn't lower the gun. "I asked who you are."
"Blackwood!" Clare screamed over the rumble of thunder outside. "Dominic Vale sent me! Blackwood!"
Elijah’s eyes widened. Slowly, he lowered the revolver, placing it on the desk. "Dominic? Where is he?"
"Marcus Kane's men are inside Bay 7!" Clare panted, leaning against the doorframe. "They're planting contraband to frame Dominic! The feds are coming!"
Elijah’s face hardened. He pulled a heavy radio from his belt, clicking a switch. "All harbor units, this is Drake. We have hostiles in Bay 7. Initiate Code Red isolation protocol. Lock the sea gates and drop the crane barriers."
Down on the main terminal road, two black tactical vans belonging to Apex Global Security had backed up to the loading dock of Bay 7. Contractors in unmarked fatigues were busy unloading heavy wooden crates marked with foreign military seals, stacking them near the center of the warehouse.
A black Sikorsky helicopter cut through the storm clouds above, its searchlight painting the wet asphalt below as it descended toward the private helipad.
The helicopter landed smoothly. The door slid back, and Marcus Kane stepped out onto the wet tarmac. He was fifty-five, sharp-featured, wearing a long black trench coat, carrying a leather briefcase containing the forged corporate seizure warrants.
Suddenly, a heavy black armored Yukon smashed through the harbor gate at eighty miles an hour, its engine roaring like a dragon.
The Yukon didn't stop. It plowed straight into the rear tactical van outside Bay 7, crushing the vehicle against the concrete loading dock in an explosion of glass and twisted steel.
The side door of the Yukon threw open.
Vincent Hale stepped out, wielding a tactical shotgun, laying down a punishing wall of lead that drove Kane’s contractors back into the shadows of the warehouse.
And then Dominic Vale stepped out of the front passenger seat.
He wore no coat, his black suit soaked by the rain, standing tall and imposing without his cane. His pale hazel eyes swept over the docks, locking directly onto Marcus Kane across the tarmac.
Kane stared in utter disbelief. "Voss said he was crippled..."
Dominic drew his Kimber .45, advancing calmly through the rain as gunfire erupted all around him. "Arthur lied."
Kane ducked behind a stack of steel shipping containers, shouting into his radio. "Team B! Move in! Kill him now!"
From the upper catwalks inside Bay 7, three Apex snipers aimed down at Dominic.
Before they could pull their triggers, the massive overhead industrial crane swept across the ceiling, its heavy steel hook swinging like a wrecking ball, smashing through the catwalk support beams. The snipers screamed as the iron walkway collapsed, dumping them onto the concrete floor thirty feet below.
Up in the crane control tower, Elijah Drake pulled a lever, winking down at Dominic through the glass window.
Dominic nodded up at the old harbor master, then kicked open the side door of Bay 7, stepping into the cavernous warehouse.
Marcus Kane was backed against a stack of wooden weapons crates, holding a silver automatic pistol with trembling hands.
"It's over, Kane," Dominic said, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "The harbor master locked the perimeter. The police sirens you hear in the distance aren't coming to arrest me. They're coming because Elijah called the State Police four minutes ago."
Kane gritted his teeth, his eyes wildly searching the dark warehouse. "You think you've won, Vale? I have thirty men on this dock!"
"You had thirty men," a voice called out from the side entrance.
Vincent walked into the light, tossing a pile of dropped assault rifles onto the floor. "Your contractors realized they weren't getting paid enough to fight Dominic Vale. They left."
Kane’s face went white. He lowered his gun slightly. "Dominic... listen to me. We can make a deal. I have connections in Washington—"
Dominic closed the distance between them in two swift strides, grabbing Kane by the lapels of his trench coat, slamming him against the wooden crate. Dominic pulled the silver pistol from Kane’s hand, crushing it under his boot.
"The only deal you're getting," Dominic whispered darkly, "is surviving until the State Police get here."
A light footsteps sounded at the entrance of Bay 7.
Dominic turned. Clare stood in the doorway, soaked, exhausted, but holding her head high.
Dominic let go of Kane, letting the former CIA director collapse to his knees as red and blue police lights began to flash through the rain outside.
Dominic walked across the cavernous room toward Clare. He reached out, taking her trembling, cold hand into his warm grip.
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"You did it, Clare," Dominic said softly.
Clare looked into his eyes, a faint, beautiful smile breaking through her exhaustion. "We did it, Mr. Vale."
