Chapter 16 - The Ambush at Pier 88
Pier 88 looked like the skeletal ribcage of an ancient metal leviathan rotting into the black waters of the Hudson. Towering shipping containers were stacked four stories high, creating a labyrinth of narrow, shadowy alleyways slickened with rain and grease.
The colossal container ship was already docked against the rusted bulkhead, its massive engines humming with a low, vibrating drone that shook the concrete piers. Men dressed in dark dockworker jackets—carrying concealed machine pistols beneath their oilskins—were unloading three massive, unmarked shipping crates using the dock’s heavy gantry crane.
Claire crouched behind a rusted forklift forty yards from the crane controls, peering through a thermal scope.
"Look at the crane operator," Claire whispered over the encrypted comms line to Frank, who was positioned on the adjacent warehouse roof. "He's not a dockworker. Look at his posture. Ex-military."
"Confirmed," Frank’s voice crackled softly. "I count twelve armed sentries around the perimeter. Two snipers on the crane superstructure. Claire, this isn't stage equipment. I just scanned the cargo crates with thermal imaging. There's heat signatures inside those crates."
Claire zoomed in. Her blood ran ice-cold.
Inside the large industrial shipping containers were rows of small, human-sized thermal silhouettes.
"They're not smuggling weapons," Claire whispered, horror choking her throat. "It’s human trafficking. Women. Children. Julianne found out they were moving people through her family's harbor."
Suddenly, the floodlights atop the gantry crane snapped around, blinding Claire in a searing wall of white light.
A booming voice shattered the sound of rain, broadcast through the dock’s industrial public-address system:
*"Welcome to Pier 88, Mrs. Vance. We’ve been waiting for you."*
From between the towering rows of shipping containers, a man stepped into the light. He wore an immaculate camel-hair overcoat over a tailored Italian suit, completely unbothered by the rain. Beside him, clutching his shoulder with a bandaged arm, was the towering assassin in the bone mask.
The man in the camel coat smiled, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
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"Allow me to introduce myself," the man said smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly over the roaring engines. "I am Lucian Cross. Chairman of the Obsidian Consortium. And you, my dear Claire, have just walked directly into your own execution."
***
