Chapter 4 - Pier 42
The rain was a torrential downpour by the time Arthur arrived at the shipping yard. Pier 42 was a massive, labyrinthine complex of stacked shipping containers, towering cranes, and deep, dark water. Industrial floodlights cast long, eerie shadows across the wet asphalt.
Arthur parked a quarter-mile away and approached on foot. Through a pair of high-powered night-vision binoculars, he could see the heavy security presence. At least twenty armed guards, all carrying military-grade weaponry, patrolling the perimeter of The Leviathan, a massive cargo ship docked at the pier.
On the upper deck of the ship, Charles Sterling stood inside a heated glass control room, sipping scotch. He was a man who prided himself on his tailored suits and his ability to control everything around him. Beside him was a corrupt customs official, signing off on paperwork that would allow the ship to leave without inspection.
"Everything is locked down, Mr. Sterling," the official said, pocketing a thick envelope of cash. "No one is checking this cargo. You’re clear to sail in one hour."
"Excellent," Charles said, looking out at the rain. "My wife tells me there’s a minor nuisance back home, but Morozov should have handled it by now. Soon, this city will be behind us, and our profits will double."
Suddenly, the lights across the entire pier flickered and died. Total darkness swallowed the shipping yard.
Inside the control room, the backup generators kicked in, casting a dim, red emergency glow. Charles frowned, setting his glass down. "What happened to the power?"
Down on the docks, panic was already setting in.
"Control, we have a blackout on Section 3," a guard shouted into his radio. "We’re checking the main transformers—"
The radio went dead with a sharp static hiss.
Arthur moved through the dark like a specter. He didn't use his guns yet; he used the environment. He climbed the metal scaffolding of a container crane, dropping down onto a pair of patrolling guards. The impact broke the first man’s neck; the second was silenced by a swift, crushing blow to the trachea.
Arthur took their radios, listening to the mounting confusion of the Sterling security force.
"Team Bravo, report! Bravo, do you copy?" the security chief’s voice crackled over the airwaves.
Arthur keyed the mic. He didn't speak. He just let them hear the sound of the pouring rain and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of a predator closing in.
"He’s here," the security chief realized, his voice trembling. "The old man is here! All teams, converge on the main gangway! Shoot to kill!"
Arthur threw the radio away. He unholstered both of his .45s. He didn't need to hide anymore. He wanted them to see him coming.
As a group of five guards rushed around a corner of shipping containers, Arthur stepped into the open. The red emergency lights caught the cold steel of his weapons.
Before the guards could level their rifles, Arthur opened fire. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Each shot was a masterpiece of kinetic combat—double-taps to the center mass, followed by headshots to ensure no body armor could save them.
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He moved in a lethal dance, dodging behind the metal corners of the containers just as a hail of bullets sparked off the steel. He reloaded in mid-stride, the empty magazines slapping against the wet ground, replaced by fresh ones in less than a second.
He was no longer just a father saving his daughter; he was the embodiment of every violent lesson he had ever taught. He was a force of nature, and the Sterlings were about to be wiped off the map.
