Chapter 8 - The Warehouse at the Docks
The salt-heavy air of the harbor tasted like iron and brine as my SUV screeched to a halt behind Marcus’s black tactical van.
Three ex-military security operatives clad in dark tactical gear stood by the side of the van, checking their communication earpieces and adjusting night-vision equipment. Marcus jogged over to my door as I threw it open and stepped out into the biting wind.
“David, you shouldn’t be here,” Marcus said, grabbing my shoulder. “This is going to get dangerous.”
“I don’t care,” I said fiercely, pulling my jacket tight. “My wife—the woman who sacrificed everything to keep my children alive—is inside that warehouse. I’m going in with you.”
The lead operator, a burly veteran named Miller—no relation—looked me up and down, then nodded curtly. “Stay behind me, Mr. Miller. If I say drop, you hit the ground and don't move.”
We moved in a synchronized, silent formation toward the rusted corrugated-metal warehouse. The building sat at the very edge of Pier 42, surrounded by towering shipping containers that cast long, menacing shadows under the flickering security lights.
A single side door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light spilling out onto the concrete.
Miller signaled with two fingers, counting down silently: Three... Two... One...
He kicked the door open with a deafening crash.
“FBI! Stay where you are!” Marcus’s security team shouted, flooding the room with tactical flashlights and weapon lights.
“Don’t move!”
Inside, the warehouse was a cavernous space filled with stacked pallets, old machinery, and cargo crates. In the center of the room, tied securely to a wooden chair beneath a harsh overhead halogen bulb, sat Sarah.
Her face was bruised, her lips split, and her clothes were stained with dirt and dried blood. But as the floodlights swept across the room, her head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock and terror.
“David?!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and raw. “Get out of here! It’s a trap!”
Before any of us could react, shadows detached themselves from the upper catwalks above.
Clack-clack.
The unmistakable sound of assault rifles locking and loading echoed down from the metal scaffolding.
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“Drop your weapons!” a harsh voice bellowed from above.
Three armed men stood on the catwalk, their rifle barrels pointed directly down at us, training their laser sights squarely on Marcus’s security team—and on me.
