Chapter 17 - Blood on the Salt Water
The rain at Pier 44 mingled with the bitter scent of industrial fuel and burning rubber.
Marcus moved like a wraith through the labyrinth of stacked shipping containers.
Behind him, six elite security operatives armed with tactical shotguns and breaching rams moved in tight formation.
Ahead, three men in dark tactical gear stood guard outside the reinforced steel door of Valve Control Room B.
They wore unmarked uniforms, but their disciplined posture gave them away as former European private military contractors.
"Drop your weapons and surrender to the Vance Authority," Marcus’s voice cut through the storm like a rifle crack.
The lead contractor raised his assault rifle without hesitation.
Marcus fired first.
A beanbag round struck the contractor squarely in the solar plexus, knocking him flat on his back into the slick mud.
The second contractor lunged forward, reaching for his sidearm, but Marcus closed the distance in two blinding strides.
He struck the man’s wrist with the butt of his weapon, shattering the joint, followed by a crushing knee to the ribs.
The contractor collapsed with a ragged gasp.
The third mercenary raised his hands, dropping his weapon onto the metal grating.
"Inside! Breach the door!" Marcus roared to his team.
The breaching charge detonated with a muffled thud, blowing the heavy hinges inward.
Smoke billowed from the room.
The manual valve had indeed been welded to an iron girder, and a digital timer attached to two canisters of industrial thermite was ticking down: two minutes and fourteen seconds.
Marcus did not hesitate.
He seized the industrial fire suppression tank from the wall, blasting the cooling chemical foam directly onto the weld until the iron groaned under thermal shock.
"Get the hydraulic spreader!" he yelled to his men.
With a terrifying shriek of tearing metal, the spreader cracked the brittle, frozen weld apart.
Marcus grabbed the iron wheel with his bare, gloved hands and threw his entire weight against it.
The wheel turned.
One rotation.
Two rotations.
With a deep hydraulic groan that vibrated through the concrete foundation of the pier, the fuel lines slammed shut.
The digital timer died as the sensor registered the pressure drop.
The flames on the outer dock flickered, starved of fuel, and began to die under the deluge of the morning rain.
Marcus pulled off his torn gloves, breathing heavily into the freezing air.
He reached into his pocket and clicked his radio.
"Pier 44 is secured, Lady Serafina."
"The fuel lines are sealed."
"The sabotage has failed."
From the speakers, Serafina’s voice came back steady and cold as winter frost:
"Good."
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"Load the captured contractors into the van."
"We are bringing them as our guests of honor to the Grand Imperial Ballroom."
