Chapter 10 - The Siege of Pier Nine
The arrest of Detective Raymond Harris broke the outer perimeter of Frank Sterling’s empire, but the head of the snake remained coiled in the dark.
While federal agents processed the intensive care ward at Saint Jude Memorial, Frank Sterling retreated to his primary fortress at Pier Nine.
Pier Nine was a sprawling forty-acre maritime container terminal jutting into the freezing waters of the Blackwood River.
Surrounded by twenty-foot chain-link fences topped with razor wire and guarded by twenty-four-hour private maritime security, it was practically sovereign territory.
The rain had turned into a relentless downpour, sweeping across the concrete docks like sheets of black plastic.
I sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked FBI command van parked four blocks outside the terminal gates.
Beside me, Special Agent Miller was listening to a secure conference call with the United States District Attorney.
“We have enough from the burner phone to issue an indictment,” Miller said, rubbing his tired eyes.
“Then why are we sitting here?” I asked, checking the lace on my boots.
“Because Frank has private legal counsel filing an emergency federal injunction in Green Bay right now.”
“His lawyers are arguing that the digital recordings from Dustin’s phone were obtained through illegal civilian coercion.”
“If the judge grants the temporary stay, Frank will be on a chartered cargo vessel to international waters within two hours.”
“He has a Panamanian-flagged container ship docked at berth three with the diesel engines already idling.”
Marcus leaned forward from the rear bench of the van, cleaning his reading glasses with his shirt hem.
“The law moves at the speed of paper, Miller.”
“Cargo ships move at twelve knots.”
“If you wait for that federal judge to finish his midnight coffee, Frank Sterling will be drinking rum in Belize by Thursday morning.”
Miller looked at the floorboards of the van, his jaw clenched in professional frustration.
“My agency cannot execute a dynamic tactical entry without the formal signed warrant from the circuit court.”
“If we breach without that paper, the entire case gets thrown out for procedural violation.”
I reached for the door handle of the van.
“Where do you think you’re going, Vance?” Miller barked, reaching for my arm.
“I don't work for the Department of Justice, Agent Miller.”
“You are a civilian, Thomas!”
“I am a father whose daughter is lying in a hospital with broken bones.”
“If you go onto Pier Nine right now, you are committing aggravated trespassing and armed burglary.”
“Then arrest me tomorrow morning,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.
“Assuming you can find me.”
Marcus grabbed his canvas jacket from the rack, grinning his wolfish, one-eyed grin.
“Count me in for the burglary charge, Miller.”
“I’ve got three years left on my VA pension anyway.”
Miller stared at the two of us for five long seconds.
He slowly looked down at his wristwatch, unclipped his radio from his belt, and laid it face down on the center console.
“My radio battery just died,” Miller said, his voice flat and bureaucratic.
“I am going to the all-night diner down the street to get a thermos of black coffee.”
“I will be back in exactly forty-five minutes.”
“If anything unusual happens at the docks while I am having my coffee, I certainly won't be here to witness it.”
I nodded once at the agent.
“Thank you, Miller.”
Marcus and I slipped out of the rear doors of the van into the torrential rain.
The night was black, loud with the roar of the river churning against the rusted steel pilings of the docks.
We moved through the railway cut, bypassing the main gatehouse where two armed guards sat inside a bulletproof glass booth.
At the south perimeter, the fence met the water over an outflow drainage culvert.
Marcus pulled a pair of heavy ratcheting bolt cutters from his canvas pack.
Three crisp snaps of hardened steel, and the chain-link mesh peeled back like the lid of a tin can.
We slipped through the gap into the labyrinth of stacked shipping containers.
The multi-colored steel boxes towered four stories high, creating narrow, dark canyons that echoed with the wind.
Floodlights illuminated the primary loading crane near berth three, where a massive black container vessel was belching grey diesel smoke into the rain.
On the second-floor balcony of the terminal operations office, four men stood under the corrugated metal roof.
In the center stood Frank Sterling, dressed in a heavy oilskin duster, shouting into a satellite phone while checking his gold wristwatch.
Around him stood his elite inner circle: three former mercenary fighters Frank had recruited from European combat circuits.
They were armed with short-barrel submachine guns, their eyes scanning the dark container aisles below.
“How do you want to handle the high ground, Thomas?” Marcus whispered, sheltering behind an orange Maersk container.
“We cut the terminal power grid first,” I said.
“Take out the three high-voltage transformers behind the maintenance shed.”
“And what about Frank?”
“Frank is mine,” I said, rolling my shoulders in the freezing rain.
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“He has lived thirty years believing that money and muscle make a man untouchable.”
“It’s time he learned the difference between an athlete and a combat instructor.”
