Chapter 5 - Fire on the Harbor
At eleven-thirty that night, the storm reached its absolute peak.
Winds gusted up to sixty miles an hour, driving torrents of freezing rain across the ink-black water of the Chesapeake Bay. Pier Twelve was a wasteland of towering shipping containers, rusted cranes, and slick, oil-stained concrete.
Parked in the shadows behind a stack of blue containers was a black Mercedes sedan. Inside sat Don Dominic Bellandi and his son Marcus, watching the dark water through the rain-streaked windshield. Half a mile away, hidden inside three unmarked vans, fifteen heavily armed SWAT officers were waiting for Dominic’s signal.
Out on the stormy bay, the massive gray silhouette of The Mediterranean Star emerged from the fog, its heavy diesel engines chugging low as it moved slowly toward the docking slips.
“She’s right on time,” Marcus said, checking his illuminated watch. “In ten minutes, the ropes drop. The moment Desmond’s men move in to block the crane, Mercer’s squad moves in.”
Dominic took a slow sip from a silver flask, his eyes gleaming with dark anticipation. “Three years I’ve waited to finalize this. Ethan was too smart for his own good. Desmond was too arrogant. Tonight, the Hale legacy ends.”
Suddenly, the night sky above the harbor was rent by a deafening THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
Dominic frowned, leaning forward against the dashboard. “What the hell is that?”
Out from the thick fog clouds hovering over the bay, a black, twin-engine stealth tactical helicopter swooped low over the water, its landing lights completely cut off.
It hovered directly above the moving deck of The Mediterranean Star, less than fifty feet above the vessel’s superstructure.
“Is that... is that a chopper?” Marcus gasped, his jaw dropping in shock.
Before Dominic could answer, four fast-ropes were dropped from the open side doors of the helicopter.
Through the pouring rain, eight figures dressed in dark tactical gear slid down the ropes onto the main deck of the moving freighter like vengeful ghosts.
Leading the drop was Desmond Hale.
The moment his boots hit the slippery steel deck of the ship, Desmond unholstered his weapon.
The Bellandi crew members stationed on the deck—six armed mercenaries hired to guard the illegal crates—were caught completely off guard. They had been staring at the pier, waiting for a confrontation on the dock. They never expected an airborne assault in the middle of a gale.
POP! POP! POP!
Suppressed gunshots echoed weakly against the roar of the wind and rain.
Desmond moved with terrifying, lethal efficiency. He breached the main deck corridor, firing three precise shots that took down two guards coming around the bulkhead. Behind him, Vance and Frank secured the engine room and the bridge within three minutes flat, holding the ship’s captain at gunpoint.
“Bridge secured!” Vance shouted over the radio headsets. “We have full control of the vessel!”
“Turn her around,” Desmond commanded into his mic, stepping into the main cargo hold where dozens of wooden crates stamped with false machinery labels were stacked high. “Steer the ship toward the federal coast guard station at Fort McHenry.”
“Copy that, Boss! Turning wheel now!”
On the pier half a mile away, Dominic Bellandi stood up out of his Mercedes, his eyes wide with absolute horror as he saw the massive container ship suddenly reverse its thrust, its bow swinging away from Pier Twelve and heading back out into the open bay.
“What is he doing?!” Dominic screamed, pulling out his radio. “Mercer! Move in! They’re taking the ship!”
Over the radio, Captain Mercer’s frantic voice cracked through the static. “Taking the ship?! We’re on the dock, Bellandi! We don't have tactical boats in this water during a gale! We can't reach a moving freighter!”
“You idiot!” Dominic shrieked. “Shoot them! Use the long-range rifles!”
Suddenly, the heavy steel shipping container right behind Dominic’s Mercedes swung open with a deafening screech of rusted metal.
Bright floodlights snapped on, blinding Dominic and Marcus in a wall of intense, white light.
Out from the container stepped twenty armed men—not police, but the veteran dock workers and union enforcers loyal to Hale Maritime, led by Frank Corsa’s second-in-command. Every one of them was holding an automatic shotgun pointed directly at Dominic’s chest.
Behind them, three marked vehicles from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sirens blaring red and blue lights into the stormy night, pulled up, blocking every exit from Pier Twelve.
Special Agent Sarah Vance stepped out of the lead FBI vehicle, a mega-phone in her hand.
“Dominic Bellandi! Marcus Bellandi!” her voice boomed over the wind. “Step away from the vehicle and put your hands on your heads! We have a federal warrant for your arrest for interstate weapons trafficking, racketeering, and murder!”
Marcus dropped his weapon instantly, throwing his hands in the air, trembling and crying out in fear.
Dominic stood frozen in the glare of the floodlights, his silver hair soaked with rain, his face twisted in absolute, ruinous shock.
He looked out toward the bay.
Standing on the high stern of The Mediterranean Star as it glided toward the safety of the federal waters was Desmond Hale.
May you like
Desmond was looking back at the pier through the rain, his silhouette framed by the red navigation lights of the ship. He didn't fire a single shot at Dominic. He didn't need to.
Desmond simply raised his hand, held up the heavy gold serpent-and-anchor signet ring between his thumb and forefinger, and let it drop into the churning, black depths of the Atlantic Ocean.
