Chapter 8 - Midnight at Dock 14
The midnight air over the South Jersey industrial park was biting, smelling of salt water, diesel exhaust, and wet asphalt.
Hidden inside a black armored SUV parked across the access road from Dock 14, Ivy watched through high-powered binoculars as three heavy semi-trucks rolled past the security gates without stopping. The driver’s side windows were rolled down, and she could clearly see the familiar face of Vivienne’s uncle, sweating profusely under the glow of the overhead halogen lamps.
“Inspectors are three minutes out,” Vance muttered from the driver’s seat, tapping the screen of his encrypted tablet. “Local tax enforcement units are moving into position from the north gate.”
In the passenger seat beside her, Ronan sat in absolute stillness, his dark overcoat buttoned to the chin, watching the terminal with cold, predatory patience.
“You’ve got good instincts, Ivy,” Ronan said quietly, not looking away from the windshield. “Better than half the men I’ve trained for ten years.”
“Instincts only get you so far, Ronan,” Ivy replied, adjusting her collar against the damp chill. “Execution is what keeps you alive.”
Right on cue, two flashing red-and-blue cruiser lights tore around the corner of the industrial warehouse, their sirens wailing into the night air as they cut off the exit lane. The three semi-trucks slammed on their brakes, tires screaming against the wet pavement.
Through the binoculars, Ivy watched the frantic chaos unfold. Tax inspectors swarmed the vehicles, demanding shipping manifests, customs stamps, and corporate authorization letters. Within five minutes, Vivienne’s uncle was pulled from his cab, slapped in handcuffs, and shoved against the hood of a police cruiser.
“Terminal Dock 12 injunction lifted due to municipal asset seizure,” Vance reported, checking his secure radio feed. “Our shipping line is clear. First container leaves for Rotterdam in twenty minutes.”
Ronan slowly turned his head, looking at Ivy in the dim dashboard light. The tension that had gripped the syndicate all week finally snapped, replaced by the electric thrill of a victory so clean it felt like art.
“You just saved the syndicate four million dollars and secured our European shipping lanes for the next three years,” Ronan said, his voice thick with unvoiced emotion. “In our world, that usually earns you a seat at the head of the table.”
“I didn't do it for the syndicate, Ronan,” Ivy said softly, turning her head to meet his dark eyes. “I did it because I’m terrible at leaving a mess half-cleaned.”
Before Ronan could answer, his phone buzzed violently on the center console. He glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened instantly from warmth to stone.
“It’s the estate security,” Ronan muttered, answering the call with a curt, sharp tone. “Report.”
May you like
Vance and Ivy watched as Ronan’s face drained of color.
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Ronan barked into the phone, his voice echoing dangerously inside the vehicle. “How the hell did Vivienne get out of the north tower?”
