Chapter 10 - THE MIDNIGHT AMBUSH ON THE LONG ISLAND SHORELINEThe smell of salt spray, diesel fumes, and wet rust hit me the moment I stepped out of the commercial delivery van into the howling coastal storm.
I wore a heavy yellow oilskin coat with the hood pulled low over my forehead, carrying a massive insulated aluminum catering crate filled with hot coffee thermoses and wrapped sandwiches. Beneath my collar, the tiny ceramic earpiece hummed with faint static.
‘I have you in my thermal scope, Clara,’ Dante’s deep, steady baritone whispered in my ear. ‘Four guards at the primary security gate. Walk slow. Keep your hands visible.’
I took a deep breath, clutching the heavy handles of the catering box, and walked through the driving rain toward the rusted chain-link gate of Pier 42.
Two men in dark tactical jackets stepped out from the guard shack, high-caliber rifles slung across their chests. “Terminal is closed tonight, lady. Turn around.”
“Night shift catering order for the harbormaster’s office,” I answered, making my voice sound tired, irritated, and drenched. “Two dozen roast beef, twelve coffees, and extra sugar. If you turn me away, you explain to your supervisor why the crew is working an eight-hour storm shift without hot food.”
The guard glanced at his partner, cursed under his breath at the bitter wind, and waved his hand dismissively. “Go straight to the office booth. Don't wander near the shipping containers.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, keeping my head down as I slipped through the gate.
‘Good girl,’ Dante’s voice came through the comm, laced with quiet pride. ‘Move toward the elevated catwalk. The detonator junction box is beneath the central stairwell.’
I navigated through the maze of towering cargo containers, the freezing rain lashing my face. High above, the massive dock cranes creaked in the wind like prehistoric skeletons. Within three minutes, I reached the metal stairs leading up to the harbormaster’s control tower.
Nestled beneath the steel landing was a weather-sealed gray electrical box, marked with orange warning tape.
I set the catering box down quietly, reached into my inner pocket, and pulled out the heavy wire cutters Marco had given me. I popped the latch on the electrical housing. Inside sat three heavy braided copper cables running directly toward the cargo ship’s mooring lines, wired into an active digital radio receiver blinking with a steady green beacon.
‘Snip the green conduit first, then the red,’ Marco’s voice instructed through the line. ‘Do not touch the ground wire.’
My hands were shaking from the freezing cold, but I clamped the blades down on the green wire. Snap. The green beacon flickered and died. I repositioned the cutters over the thick red braid and squeezed with all my strength. Snap.
The digital display went black. The thermite charges were neutralized.
‘Detonators are offline!’ I whispered into my collar.
Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed the hood of my oilskin jacket from behind, yanking me backward with violent force.
I cried out, slipping on the wet metal grating as my hood was torn away. Towering over me was a scarred, hulking mercenary holding a silenced automatic pistol, his eyes widening in recognition as he spotted the glowing earpiece in my ear.
“We got a rat beneath the catwalk!” he yelled into his radio, cocking the pistol and aiming it directly at my forehead. “It’s a Caruso plant!”
Before he could pull the trigger, the night exploded.
A high-velocity sniper round cracked through the darkness, shattering the steel railing beside the guard and tearing through his shoulder. The mercenary screamed, collapsing against the stairs.
Then, the blinding headlights of six black armored SUVs smashed through the chain-link gates of Pier 42, engines roaring like charging beasts.
Dante’s strike team had arrived.
Heavy gunfire echoed across the shipping docks as Dante’s enforcers swarmed the perimeter, catching Falcone’s mercenaries completely off-guard. In the center of the crossfire, the door of the lead vehicle kicked open, and Dante Caruso charged out into the storm.
He didn't take cover. He moved through the driving rain like an ancient warlord, firing with lethal, pinpoint precision, dropping two armed ambushers who attempted to flank the catwalk.
“Clara!” Dante roared across the gunfire, his eyes locking onto my position beneath the stairs.
I scrambled up, but from the shadow of a rusted crane fifty feet away, a lone figure stepped out into the rain. It was Don Falcone himself, dressed in a long leather trench coat, holding a heavy assault rifle aimed squarely at Dante’s exposed back.
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“Dante, look out!” I screamed.
Without thinking, without a single thought for my own survival, I leaped off the metal landing, sprinting across the wet asphalt, and threw my entire weight against Dante’s chest just as Falcone pulled the trigger.
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