Chapter 12: The Iron Pier
The black SUV tore through the coastal fog, racing inland toward the derelict industrial shipyard on the south docks where our digital trackers indicated the signal was originating. The rain had subsided into a fine, stinging mist that coated the windshield in a gray film, blurring the towering cranes and rusting shipping containers of the abandoned port into menacing silhouettes. Dominic drove with one hand, his fingers clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles were stark white, while his other hand rested on the automatic pistol he had retrieved from the safehouse cache.
We parked two blocks away behind a stack of rusted iron piping, cutting the engine and plunging the interior into absolute quiet. Through the cracked windshield, I could make out the bulk of a sprawling corrugated steel warehouse sitting at the end of a long, water-logged pier. Three armed men in dark tactical gear paced near the rusted sliding doors, their weapons held at the ready in the damp night air.
"They're using the old maritime shipping terminal," Dominic murmured, checking the clip of his sidearm with a metallic click. "It's a dead zone. No cameras, no patrols, and thick enough concrete to muffle a firing squad."
"How do we get inside without triggering a bloodbath before we find Julian?" I asked, pulling my silver stethoscope out of my pocket and looping it around my neck like a tourniquet.
"We don't," Dominic replied coldly. "I draw the fire at the main loading bay. You slip through the maintenance ladder on the north side, find the central office where they're holding him, and get him stabilized."
"No," I said, turning to look him straight in the eye. "If you go in alone with a fresh shoulder wound, you'll bleed out before you reach the second floor. We go together, or I walk out right now and call federal authorities myself."
Dominic stared at me, a muscle ticking in his jaw as a fierce, silent battle played out behind his dark eyes. He knew I was right, and he hated it. "Stay behind me," he finally growled, shifting the car into park. "Every second."
We moved through the shadows of the rusted cargo containers like ghosts, the heavy smell of salt water and diesel fuel thick in our throats. As we reached the side entrance of the warehouse, a guard stepped around the corner of a corrugated wall, his assault rifle raised. Before he could shout an alarm, Dominic was on him, bringing the heavy butt of his pistol down hard against the man's temple with a sickening thud. The guard crumpled silently into the gravelly mud.
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I knelt instantly, checking his pulse and pupil dilation while Dominic dragged the unconscious body behind a stack of wooden pallets. "He's out cold," I whispered, wiping the rain from my forehead. "We have three minutes before his patrol partner checks in."
Dominic motioned toward the rusted metal door ahead of us, which stood ajar by a few inches, bleeding a faint yellow light into the gray fog. Inside, muffled voices echoed off the high steel rafters. We slipped through the gap into the belly of the beast, our boots making no sound against the grimy concrete floor, stepping directly into the crosshairs of a war we were determined to finish.
