Chapter 8 - The Meeting on Pier 41
Pier 41 was a decaying stretch of concrete jutting out into the black, churning water of the harbor. There was no cover, no place to hide, which was exactly why Vance chose it. It was a sniper's nightmare in the heavy fog, forcing a face-to-face confrontation.
The headlights of a single, armored luxury SUV cut through the mist, rolling to a slow stop at the edge of the pier. The doors opened, and three men stepped out. Two were bodyguards holding umbrellas, and the third was the Commodore.
He was an older man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that cost more than a dockworker made in a decade. He held a silver-tipped cane, projecting an aura of absolute, undisputed authority.
Vance stood twenty paces away, the rain flattening his hair against his forehead, his hands resting naturally at his sides.
"You have a lot of nerve, Mr. Vance," the Commodore called out over the sound of the crashing waves. "Or a death wish. Silas told me you stole my shipment."
"Silas lied," Vance replied, his voice carrying effortlessly. He tossed the flash drive onto the wet concrete between them. "That ledger proves Silas diverted the shipment himself. He’s selling the VX gas to a cartel out of Mexico. He used my name as a smokescreen because he knew you’d spend all your resources hunting a ghost while he loaded the cargo onto a freighter."
The Commodore stared at the drive, then looked up at Vance, his eyes narrowing. "Why should I believe a rogue mercenary over my own enforcer?"
"Because if I stole the gas, I’d be halfway to Europe by now, not standing in the rain handing you the evidence," Vance stated flatly. "Check the drive. Verify the accounts. You'll see Silas has been siphoning your money for months."
One of the bodyguards walked forward, retrieving the drive and plugging it into a tablet. He showed the screen to the Commodore. The older man’s face turned visibly pale as he read the transaction logs.
"That treacherous dog," the Commodore hissed, gripping his cane tightly. He looked back at Vance. "Where is the shipment now?"
"The Star of Antioch," Vance said. "A rust-bucket freighter anchored two miles off the coast. It sets sail in an hour. Your men can't catch it in time without alerting the Coast Guard and bringing the feds down on your entire operation."
"And you can?" the Commodore asked, a shrewd calculation forming in his eyes.
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"I don't need an army. I need a fast boat, and I need you to promise that Elias—the clockmaker—is under your permanent protection. Nobody touches him, ever again."
The Commodore nodded slowly. "Deal. Bring me Silas's head, Ghost. And we are even."
