Chapter 6 - The Shadows of Port 44
Port 44 was a desolate, cavernous industrial dock located on the far south side of the Chicago waterfront. The air was thick with the stench of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rusted metal. Massive shipping containers were stacked three stories high, creating a labyrinth of pitch-black alleys beneath the towering, skeletal cranes.
It was 11:30 PM. The storm had converted into a freezing, misting fog that clung to the concrete ground.
Inside the command van parked two blocks away from the dock entrance, Ronan was reviewing the tactical layout on a thermal imaging monitor with Marcus.
“Vance has eighteen armed mercenaries positioned inside Warehouse 7,” Marcus pointed out, tapping a red thermal signature on the screen. “He’s secured the perimeter with heavy automatic rifles. The federal strike team is positioned three miles out, waiting for our confirmation that the illegal crates have been unsealed.”
“We don't wait for the feds,” Ronan said coldly, checking the magazine of a matte-black sidearm before holstering it under his coat. “If the feds take him down, Vance’s lawyers will tie the case up in appellate courts for five years. I want him caught in the act of physical execution.”
I sat in the corner of the van, wearing a heavy Kevlar vest under my coat, as Ronan insisted. “Ronan, let me go in with the secondary team.”
Ronan stopped, turning his sharp gaze onto me. “Absolutely not. You stay in this van with Marcus’s elite unit.”
“Vance doesn't know what you know, but he knows my face,” I argued, stepping up to him. “If he sees me anywhere near the perimeter, his ego will force him to confront me directly. That gives your men the exact distraction they need to flank Warehouse 7 without triggering a firefight.”
Ronan grabbed my upper arms, his grip firm but gentle. “I spent eleven months watching you suffer under my roof, Ivy. I am not putting your life on the line as bait.”
“I’m not bait, Ronan,” I said, meeting his intense gray eyes without backing down. “I’m your partner in this. I started this when I brought you those photos. Let me help you finish it.”
Ronan stared at me for five long seconds. The raw, powerful emotion in his eyes was undeniable. He hated the idea, but he recognized the cold efficiency of the strategy.
“If anything goes wrong,” Ronan whispered, his face inches from mine, his voice trembling with a rare burst of vulnerability, “if a single bullet comes near you, I will burn this city to the ground.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” I promised.
Ten minutes later, the operation was set into motion.
I walked slowly down the main lane of Port 44, my footfalls echoing against the damp asphalt. The mist swirled around me like ghost silk. Ahead, the massive sliding doors of Warehouse 7 were propped open, cast in a dim yellow glow from high-sodium industrial lamps.
As I approached the opening, three men in tactical gear stepped out of the shadows, their automatic rifles immediately raised toward my chest.
“Hold it right there!” one of them barked.
I stopped, raising my gloved hands into the air. “I’m here to see Julian Vance.”
A low, mocking laughter sounded from inside the dark warehouse.
A man in his early fifties, wearing a sharp charcoal cashmere coat and sporting slicked-back gray hair, walked out from between two shipping containers. Julian Vance.
“Well, well,” Vance sneered, holding a lit cigar between his fingers. “The famous plus-size maid who brought down the future Mrs. Blackwood. I must admit, Miss Lin, you have far more nerve than your foolish father ever had.”
“My father was an honest man,” I said, keeping my voice loud and clear for the concealed microphones embedded in my jacket. “You ruined him with predatory loans and forged bills of lading.”
“Business is business, my dear,” Vance laughed, taking a slow puff of his cigar. “And speaking of business, where is your prince charming? Did Ronan Blackwood really send his new little pet out into the dark all by herself?”
“Ronan isn't coming,” I lied smoothly, taking a half-step forward to keep his attention fixed entirely on me. “He thinks I’m safe in the penthouse. I came here to make a deal.”
Vance’s eyebrows raised in mild amusement. “A deal? A maid making a deal with a shipping tycoon? This I have to hear.”
“I have the original master encryption key for the Blackwood financial servers,” I said, pulling a small metal flash drive from my pocket. “The one Vivien tried to copy. Give me five million dollars and safe passage out of the country, and it’s yours. Ronan will be ruined, and you’ll have total control over the port.”
Vance’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the drive in my hand. Greed warred with caution in his expression. He took three steps toward me.
“Hand it over,” Vance demanded, reaching out his hand.
“Show me the shipment first,” I replied coldly.
Vance smirked. “You’ve got guts, girl. Look behind you.”
He gestured to the open container inside the warehouse. But before I could turn, a sharp whistle echoed through the night air.
Click.
Red laser sights suddenly painted Vance’s chest and the heads of his three mercenaries.
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From the shadows of the surrounding shipping containers, dozens of tactical operatives clad in black gear materialized like ghosts. And walking right down the center aisle, his long black coat billowing in the wind, was Ronan Blackwood.
“She’s not selling anything tonight, Julian,” Ronan’s voice rang out, colder than the icy rain falling around us. “But you’re buying a lifetime sentence in a federal penitentiary.”
