Chapter 8 - Midnight at the Tacoma Docks
The Tacoma shipping terminal was a sprawling, industrial maze of towering steel cranes, stacked cargo containers, and dark, slick asphalt reflecting the amber glare of sodium-vapor floodlights. A bitter, salt-laden wind whipped off Puget Sound, driving freezing rain sideways across the docks.
Two unmarked black SUVs pulled silently to a halt beside Warehouse 42, their headlights cutting through the heavy coastal fog.
Jonathan Bennett stepped out of the lead vehicle, pulling his dark wool overcoat tightly against the chill. Annie stepped out right behind him, her boots clicking firmly against the wet concrete. Two armed corporate security specialists in tactical gear emerged from the second vehicle, checking their sidearms with quiet efficiency.
“The whistleblower memo said Pier 4, Section B,” Daniel murmured, holding a ruggedized tablet displaying a satellite map of the terminal. “There’s a container ship—the Pacific Voyager—scheduled to cast off for international waters at 1:00 a.m. Cargo manifest lists industrial spare parts.”
“Industrial spare parts don't require refrigerated humidity-controlled crates,” Jonathan said coldly, his grey eyes fixed on the corrugated metal doors of Warehouse 42. “Let’s move.”
They approached the side entrance of the warehouse. A heavy steel padlock hung from the latch, but a single kick from one of the security specialists shattered the rusted housing, and the door swung open with a screech of protesting hinges.
Inside, the warehouse was cavernous, dimly lit by a single row of flickering overhead fluorescent tubes.
Stacks of wooden crates reached up toward the corrugated ceiling. And sitting right in the center of the concrete floor, surrounded by packing tape, bubble wrap, and shipping labels written in foreign languages, were thousands of old, recalled Bennett B-12 and C-1 prosthetic units.
“Son of a bitch,” Annie whispered, walking over to the nearest open crate. She reached inside, pulled out a metal knee joint, and flipped it over. The serial number was stamped right into the housing. “These are the exact models Vance was supposed to destroy five years ago. He didn't write them off—he hoarded them to sell overseas.”
Suddenly, a sharp metallic clatter echoed from the far corner of the warehouse behind a stack of shipping containers.
“Hold your positions,” Jonathan commanded sharply, stepping in front of Annie with instinctive protection, his hand resting on his coat pocket.
Two men in dark coveralls came scrambling around the corner of the container stack, carrying clipboards and frantically shouting instructions to a forklift driver parked near the back loading bay. When they saw Jonathan, Annie, and the security detail blocking the exit, they froze like deer in headlights.
“Federal agents—stay where you are!” one of the security specialists bellowed, flashing a corporate badge while closing the distance with practiced speed.
One of the men dropped his clipboard, turned tail, and tried to sprint toward a side exit. The second man lunged for a heavy iron crowbar resting against a pallet.
Before the second man could lift the tool, Annie moved.
With the explosive, perfectly calibrated torque of her C-Series bionic leg, she closed ten feet of distance in less than a second. A swift, precise sweep of her foot kicked the crowbar skittering across the concrete floor, followed immediately by a firm, balanced pivot that backed the man up against a stack of cardboard boxes with his arms pinned behind him before he even realized what had hit him.
The man gasped, struggling against her grip. “Who—what the hell are you?!”
“Senior Director of Field Diagnostics,” Annie said smoothly, twisting his arm just enough to neutralize any further resistance as corporate security rushed over to slap zip-ties around his wrists. “And you’re violating federal medical device distribution laws.”
May you like
Jonathan walked up slowly, standing beside Annie as the second fleeing worker was successfully cornered and detained by the guards. He looked down at the massive sea of illicit, dangerous medical equipment filling the warehouse.
“Call the FBI field office in Seattle,” Jonathan instructed Daniel, his voice calm, cold, and absolute. “Tell them we found Richard Vance’s retirement fund. And wake up the Port Authority—no container leaves this harbor until every single crate is accounted for.”
