Chapter 13 - THE TANKER WAR: A ONE-WOMAN ASSAULT ON THE SLAVE PIPELINE
The drop was silent, absorbing the kinetic impact through her tactical boots without a sound.
Before the nearest guard could turn his head to investigate the slight rustle of pallets, Abigail closed the distance between them in three blinding, fluid strides.
She drove the butt of her rifle upward into the base of his skull, catching his falling body before it hit the tarmac and lowering him quietly into the shadow of a stacked container.
Three guards remaining.
Viktor Rostova stood near the rear doors of the semi-truck, watching two of his men begin to herd the terrified, shivering individuals out of the freezing cargo container.
“Move faster, you useless animals!” Rostova barked in Russian, waving a Browning 9mm pistol in the air.
“Drop the weapon, Viktor,” a cold, calm voice commanded from the darkness beside the flatbed truck.
Rostova whipped around, his gun raising instantly toward the sound.
He fired twice into the empty air where the voice had originated, the muzzle flashes lighting up the fog.
By the time the bullets struck the steel wall behind her, Abigail had already rolled beneath the chassis of the semi-truck, popping up on the opposite side directly behind the remaining two guards.
Pfft, pfft.
Two suppressed subsonic rounds found their marks with absolute, lethal precision. Both guards dropped instantly to the asphalt without firing a single shot.
Rostova cursed loudly in Russian, backing away toward the cab of his truck, frantically scanning the fog for his unseen assailant. “Show yourself, coward!” he roared.
Abigail stepped out from the shroud of the mist into the amber glow of the truck’s headlights, her rifle lowered to a low-ready position, her dark eyes burning with absolute, unyielding fury.
“Remember me, Viktor?” she asked quietly. “Interpol Red Notice 2019-B. You slipped through my fingers in Marseille. I promised myself you wouldn't get a second chance.”
Rostova’s face drained of color as he recognized the elite tactical posture of the federal operative who had dismantled his European transit hub five years prior.
“You...” Rostova gasped, raising his pistol with a shaking hand. “You’re the federal ghost.”
He pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Dry fire.
Abigail closed the distance in a fraction of a second, kicked the pistol out of his hand with a lightning-fast roundhouse sweep, and slammed him hard against the side of the semi-truck, pressing her forearm brutally against his windpipe.
Rostova choked for air, his hands clawing uselessly at her tactical vest.
“The wedding is over, Viktor,” Abigail whispered, her voice dropping into a lethal, freezing register. “You’re out of time.”
From the access road behind them, the wailing sirens of six tactical assault vehicles suddenly pierced the night, their blinding red and blue strobe lights painting the fog in brilliant flashes of authority as federal agents swarmed the pier.
Director Vance stepped out of the lead SUV, his weapon drawn, stopping short as he took in the sight of the secured semi-truck, the neutralized mercenaries, and Abigail pinning the international human smuggler against the metal cab.
Vance let out a slow, heavy breath, lowering his weapon and shaking his head with a mixture of profound disbelief and hard-earned respect.
“Remind me never to plan a surprise party for you, Agent Preston,” Vance called out over the sirens.
May you like
Abigail clicked a pair of heavy steel handcuffs around Viktor Rostova’s wrists, shoved him into the waiting arms of the federal tactical team, and adjusted her combat helmet.
“Just keep the coffee hot, Director,” she replied, stepping back into the mist. “The bride has a long night ahead of her.”
