Chapter 12 - The Ambush at Pier 14
The small skiff hammered against the violent chop of the commercial harbor channel.
Saltwater sprayed across Ava’s face, washing away the dried blood and sewer grime from her skin.
Ethan huddled beneath the fiberglass bow locker, clutching the heavy wool blanket Adrian had given him.
The boy’s eyes were locked onto the distant lights of Pier 14.
"Is Dad going to meet us at the big ship?" Ethan asked, his voice competing with the roar of the diesel motor.
Ava kept her hand steady on the vibration of the steering tiller.
She could not bring herself to lie to the child, nor could she shatter his fragile heart with the brutal probability of death.
"Your dad told us to get to the ship, Ethan," Ava answered, keeping her eyes fixed on the navigation buoys.
"We follow his orders until we are aboard."
The skiff rounded the concrete jetty that protected the commercial container basin from the open Atlantic swells.
The water smoothed out inside the deep-water berth, reflecting the sickly amber sodium lights of the towering cranes.
The Northern Star was a weathered, four-hundred-foot bulk carrier registered out of Monrovia.
Its rusted black steel hull rose forty feet above the waterline like a sheer cliff.
At the stern of the vessel, a heavy steel pilot ladder hung down toward the water’s edge.
Ava cut the throttle and allowed the skiff to glide silently against the giant rubber bumper tires lining the pier pilings.
The engine died with a soft mechanical shudder.
The silence that replaced it was heavy, suffocating, and filled with the unnatural tension of an ambush.
Ava secured the frayed bowline to an iron cleat on the lower dock piling.
She looked up at the deserted concrete apron of Pier 14.
Dozens of multi-colored shipping containers were stacked three high across the vast asphalt expanse.
There were no longshoremen working the night shift.
The terminal offices were completely dark, their windows blacked out by the citywide power outage.
Ava pulled Adrian’s gold signet ring from her pocket and slipped it onto her thumb for safekeeping.
"Up the ladder first, Ethan," Ava commanded softly.
"Do not look down at the water."
"Climb straight to the deck."
Ethan grabbed the wet hemp ropes of the pilot ladder and began pulling his small body upward.
Ava followed directly behind him, placing her hands on the rungs beneath his feet to catch him if he slipped.
Her right arm was swollen to twice its normal size, the infection radiating a dull, sickening throb into her collarbone.
They reached the concrete dock apron and rolled over the safety chain onto the wet asphalt.
A sudden blinding glare of halogen work lights snapped on from the top of three parked container chassis.
Ava froze, instinctively throwing her arm across Ethan’s chest to shove him behind her back.
From the deep shadows between two rusted red shipping containers, four men stepped into the brilliant light.
They were not wearing the military tactical gear of Salvatore Vance’s foreign assault force.
They wore tailored charcoal suits drenched by the downpour, carrying nickel-plated handguns with casual familiarity.
At the center of the group stood Julian Russo.
Adrian’s treacherous cousin had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his thin, sneering mouth.
He held a silver umbrella over his head, completely untouched by the driving gale.
"Well, look at what washed up from the sewer," Julian said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement.
Ethan whimpered and buried his face in Ava’s hip.
Ava stood tall, refusing to lower her chin despite the four firearms trained directly on her chest.
"Julian," Ava said, her voice steady and clear as ringing iron.
"You should have stayed in the house, maid," Julian sighed, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.
"A girl like you could have found work in any kitchen in this city."
"Instead, you decided to play bodyguard for a child that doesn't even belong to this family."
"He belongs to Adrian," Ava retorted, stepping forward to shield the boy completely.
Julian threw his head back and laughed, a shrill, mocking sound that echoed across the empty shipping terminal.
"Adrian is dead, you stupid girl," Julian sneered, tossing his cigarette into a puddle where it hissed out.
"My men watched the iron foundry collapse into a crater forty minutes ago."
"The old man blew the blast charges from the inside."
"Adrian and Vincent are currently baking beneath eighty tons of burning slag and reinforced concrete."
Ethan let out a sharp, strangled gasp behind her, his small body collapsing into a fit of silent, suffocating weeping.
"You're lying," Ava said, though her stomach twisted into a knot of agonizing despair.
"I don't need to lie to dead people," Julian replied, pulling a heavy revolver from his tailored coat.
"Vance paid me five million upfront to deliver the Moretti bastard at the docks."
"He gets the boy alive."
"You, however, are a loose thread."
"Nobody cares about a missing maid in a city full of corpses."
Julian raised the revolver and leveled the barrel directly between Ava’s eyes.
His index finger tightened around the grooved steel trigger.
Ava did not close her eyes.
She stared down the black bore of the weapon, preparing to throw her body forward to tackle the child to safety.
A single, concussive gunshot cracked through the wet night from the darkness atop the container stacks.
Julian’s chief enforcer standing on his left dropped like a sack of wet flour, a neat black hole drilled through his forehead.
Julian flinched violently, dropping his umbrella as rain immediately plastered his slicked hair to his scalp.
"Sniper!" Julian screamed, diving behind an iron bollard.
A second shot tore through the shoulder of the gunman on his right, spinning the man around before he collapsed into the channel.
From the deep shadow of the container aisle, a figure emerged into the halogen glare with terrifying, rhythmic strides.
The man walked with a heavy, pronounced limp, but his posture was that of an apex predator closing in for the kill.
His charcoal coat was shredded, burned black around the shoulders, and caked in grey concrete dust.
Blood was dripping steadily from a deep shrapnel wound across his left temple.
In his right hand, he held a long-barreled tactical carbine, smoke drifting gently from its flash suppressor.
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It was Adrian Russo.
He had crawled out of the burning grave.
