Chapter 18 - The Cold Slipway
At six-thirty in the morning, the fog over Elliott Bay was so thick you could taste the salt and diesel in the damp air.
Pier 44 stretched into the gray water like a giant concrete finger.
Two hundred dockworkers from the International Longshore and Warehouse Union stood in tight, silent ranks near the primary crane gantry.
They wore their yellow reflective vests, hard hats, and heavy work boots.
They weren't striking.
They were standing watch.
When Arthur and I stepped out of our vehicle onto the cold asphalt, the union business manager, Frank Gallagher, walked forward to meet us.
Frank was a massive man who had worked the docks alongside my father in the seventies.
"Claire," Frank said, taking my hand in his calloused grip.
"Arthur told us what that bastard Michael tried to do to the pensions and the slips."
"The longshoremen don't work for Helvetia, Frank," I said, looking past him to the black water where the running lights of an approaching tanker cut through the mist.
"The *Northern Star* is three miles out," Frank said, nodding toward the sound.
"The harbor pilot got the radio order from the federal magistrate’s clerk claiming the ship has an emergency docking clearance."
"The magistrate’s clerk was bribed by Marcus Sterling’s firm," Arthur interjected, checking his watch.
"Our motion to stay the docking order is currently sitting on Judge Thomas’s desk in the federal courthouse on 7th Avenue."
"The court doesn't open its formal session for another ninety minutes."
"That tanker will be tied up to slip four in thirty minutes," Frank said.
"If their lines touch our bollards, maritime jurisdiction attaches, Claire."
"Then we don't let their lines touch the bollards," I said.
I walked toward the edge of the slipway, the cold salt spray misting against my skin.
Behind us, two sleek black Cadillac Escalades sped down the private port access road, tires screeching against the damp pavement.
They came to a halt twenty yards from the crane gantry.
The doors opened, and Marcus Sterling stepped out.
He was fifty years old, impeccably groomed in a tailored charcoal cashmere overcoat, his silver hair slicked back against the rain.
Behind him were four corporate attorneys in dark suits and two men carrying briefcases embossed with the seal of a private maritime security firm.
Marcus smiled with smooth, predatory confidence as he walked toward me, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the industrial concrete.
"Claire Montgomery," Marcus said, extending a gloved hand that I ignored completely.
"You look remarkably composed for a woman whose family legacy expires at eight o'clock this morning."
"You shouldn't have come to my port, Marcus," I said, my voice cutting through the distant drone of the tanker’s engines.
Marcus chuckled, a low, patronizing sound.
"Your port?"
"Claire, look out at the water."
"The *Northern Star* carries twenty-two thousand metric tons of refined product."
"The writ of attachment was signed by the foreign admiralty commissioner at midnight."
"This slipway belongs to Helvetia Maritime."
"And unless you want to spend the next five years defending a federal obstruction charge, I suggest you tell these fine men to hook up the shore lines."
"The shore lines aren't moving, Sterling," Frank Gallagher rumbled, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
"Then you’ll all be held in contempt of federal process," Marcus snapped, his smile fading into a sharp sneer.
"Show her the warrant, Robert."
Julianna’s uncle, Robert Sterling, stepped forward and pulled a certified legal decree from his leather folder.
"This is an order of summary possession from the Western District," Robert said dryly.
"It authorizes Helvetia to assume operational management of Pier 44 immediately upon the vessel’s arrival."
"That order is based on the 2012 collateral guarantee signed by Michael Vance," I said, holding Marcus’s cold gaze.
"It is," Marcus said smoothly.
"And Michael Vance was the managing proxy of the Montgomery estate."
"Michael Vance was a fraud," I said.
"And so are you."
Around the corner of the cold-storage warehouse, a third vehicle appeared.
A dark blue unmarked federal sedan rolled to a stop beside the gantry.
May you like
The door opened, and David Vance stepped out, accompanied by an assistant United States Attorney and two special agents from the Department of Homeland Security.
Marcus Sterling’s arrogant smile froze on his face.
