Chapter 24 - Bloodlines and Betrayals
"You forgot one detail, Sterling," Silas said softly.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow. "And what is that, Major?"
"You're standing on my docks."
Silas raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the massive industrial floodlights of Berth Nine roared to life with blinding, four-million-lumen brilliance, aiming straight down into the eyes of Sterling’s men. The sniper teams in the helicopters were blinded as the dock's emergency high-frequency sonic sirens erupted, disorienting their guidance systems.
From behind the shipping containers, three hundred dockworkers—men whose families Silas had fed, protected, and sheltered for over a decade—stepped into the light. They weren't soldiers, but they held heavy industrial flare guns, steel chains, welding torches, and assault rifles salvaged from the Moretti warehouse raids.
"Fire!" Sterling barked, diving toward the cover of his Suburban.
Gunfire ripped through the harbor air. Bullets pinged violently against the steel containers, throwing sparks into the twilight. Silas didn't take cover—he charged forward like a guided missile, grabbing the nearest operative by the throat, driving him face-first into the concrete, and stripping the man’s rifle in a single fraction of a second.
"Matteo! Secure the south flank!" Silas shouted, firing a precision burst that took out the tires of both flank Suburbans, immobilizing Sterling’s convoy.
Inside the compound, I didn't wait to be rescued.
I bolted back into the office, lifting Clara into my arms just as a burst of suppressed fire shattered the high panoramic windows. Glass rained down like diamond dust.
"Mommy!" Clara cried, burying her face into my neck.
"Hold on to me, sweetheart!" I shouted, grabbing the heavy pump-action Remington shotgun Silas kept bolted beneath the mahogany desk. I racked the slide back with a heavy *clack-clack*. The waitress who used to cower from abusive patrons at the greasy diner was dead. The woman holding this gun was Clara's mother, and I was prepared to kill anyone who threatened her life.
Suddenly, footsteps pounded outside the office door.
The door splintered inward. A tall man in an unmarked tactical vest breached the room, weapon raised.
It was Inspector Hayes—the chief harbor customs inspector who had worked for Silas for seven years.
"Hayes?!" I yelled, keeping the shotgun leveled at his chest. "What are you doing?!"
"I'm sorry, Elena," Hayes breathed, his face soaked in sweat, his hands shaking around a silenced sidearm. "They have my family in Virginia. Sterling promised they wouldn't hurt Clara... they just need her blood! Put the gun down, Elena! Please!"
"Get out," I snarled, stepping in front of my daughter.
"Elena, please, I don't want to hurt you—"
He raised his weapon.
May you like
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
***
