Chapter 7 - Inside the Warehouse
The main cargo warehouse of Pier 42 loomed before us like a monolithic cathedral of corrugated steel and shadow.
Inside,
the air smelled heavily of diesel fuel,
damp salt,
and the sweet,
synthetic chemical stench of unrefined fentanyl.
Stacked to the ceiling were wooden crates stamped with false pharmaceutical labels,
masking the poison bound for distribution across the East Coast.
“This is it,
” Clara whispered,
ducking behind a massive stack of crates near the loading bay.
“Sloan’s primary distribution hub.
”
“Where is Sloan himself?” I asked,
scanning the catwalks overhead with the infrared scope of my MP5.
“According to the decrypted radio chatter I intercepted,
his private office is on the upper mezzanine at the far end of the facility.
”
“Let’s go pay our respects.
”
We moved silently through the labyrinth of crates,
shadows shielding our advance from the handful of guards patrolling the ground floor.
Every step was calculated,
every breath controlled.
Suddenly,
the heavy metal doors at the far end of the warehouse slammed open.
A dozen men in black tactical gear poured into the building,
led by a scarred brute carrying an M4 carbine with an under-barrel grenade launcher.
“Secure the perimeter!” the brute roared,
his voice echoing off the corrugated tin roof.
“Mason’s feed just went dead,
and the federal servers are pinging our IP addresses!”
“They know we’ve been compromised!”
Clara and I froze behind a stack of chemical barrels.
The mercenaries spread out systematically,
sweeping flashlights across the floor and checking every aisle.
“They’re boxing us in,
” Clara whispered,
her fingers resting lightly on the grip of her Walther.
“Can you hack their internal comms?”
“Already did,
” she replied,
her eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“I’m broadcasting a false withdrawal order on their secondary frequency.
”
A second later,
static hissed through the walkie-talkies clipped to the nearest guards' vests.
“All units,
fallback to Sector Four! Repeat,
fallback to Sector Four immediately!” a synthesized voice barked over the radio.
The mercenaries hesitatingly halted their advance,
exchanging confused glances.
“Sector Four is on the opposite side of the pier,
” one grunted.
“Move,
move!” the leader shouted,
waving them toward the far exit.
The squad scrambled away,
their heavy boots splashing across the concrete floor as they hurried toward the phantom threat.
Clara lowered her terminal with a satisfied smile.
“Never underestimate the power of a well-timed administrative rerouting,
” she murmured.
“Lead the way to the mezzanine,
” I replied,
stepping out from our cover.
We reached the industrial metal staircase leading to the upper office without further interference.
The heavy oak door to Patrick Sloan’s office was unlocked,
swinging slightly open in the draft of the warehouse ventilation system.
I raised my weapon,
May you like
kicked the door wide open,
and stepped inside.
