Chapter 6 - THE PIPELINE AT PORT 42
Port 42 on the south bank of the Chicago River was a desolate wasteland of rusting shipping containers, abandoned cranes, and rotting timber piers.
At 4:30 a.m., a dense river fog rolled over the black water, muffling the distant sounds of city traffic.
Inside an oversized corrugated steel warehouse at the edge of Pier 3, Tyrell stood near a lit oil drum fire, pacing frantic circles across the cracked concrete floor. His clothes were soaked from the storm, his hair matted to his forehead, his eyes wild with the desperation of a cornered animal.
Three men dressed in expensive leather coats sat on wooden crates near a satellite communications rig. They were regional representatives of the syndicate operating out of the shipping corridor.
“You’re burned, Tyrell,” the lead syndicate operative said coldly, puffing on a cigar. “Vance handed the digital ledgers to the federal prosecutor twenty minutes ago. The Department of Justice is issuing thirty warrants as we speak.”
“I can fix this!” Tyrell shrieked, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. “Just give me three guys and a boat! I’ll go back to Vance’s estate, I’ll take the girl, and we can force Vance to destroy the drives!”
The syndicate lead laughed—a cold, cruel sound. “You idiot. You brought Dante Vance into our business because you couldn't control a schoolteacher and a six-year-old child. You’re not getting a boat, Tyrell. You’re getting recycled.”
The lead operative reached into his coat for a silenced firearm.
Before his fingers could close around the grip, the double steel doors at the front of the warehouse were torn completely off their hinges with a deafening metallic screech.
A high-powered security truck smashed through the entrance, its halogen fog lights blinding everyone inside the warehouse.
Four armed men dressed in dark tactical gear poured out of the truck, securing the perimeter with lethal speed, disarming the three syndicate operatives before they could draw their weapons.
From the shadow of the broken entrance, Dante Vance stepped into the warehouse.
Beside him walked Nero, his massive gray paws striking the concrete with a heavy, deliberate rhythm.
Tyrell scrambled back against the oil drum, pulling his service weapon with a trembling hand, pointing it wildly at Dante’s chest.
“Stay back!” Tyrell screamed, his eyes bloodshot. “Stay back, Vance! I’ll kill you! I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through your heart!”
Dante didn't slow down. He walked smoothly into the glare of the halogen lights, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets.
“You don't have the heart to pull that trigger, Tyrell,” Dante said softly. “You only know how to hit women in the dark when no one is watching.”
“I’m a decorated officer!” Tyrell screamed, his hand shaking so violently the gun barrel wobbled in the air. “I owned this city!”
“You owned nothing,” Dante spat, stopping ten feet away. “You were a petty parasite hiding behind a silver badge, feeding on the weak.”
Nero let out a terrifying, throat-clearing growl, stepping forward, his dark eyes locked onto Tyrell’s throat.
Tyrell looked at the giant dog, then at the armed team surrounding him, then at Dante’s cold, unyielding face. The realization of his total, absolute defeat smashed through his fragile ego, shattering whatever sanity he had left.
With a desperate, animalistic cry, Tyrell shifted his grip, aiming his weapon not at Dante, but toward the fuel lines running along the warehouse wall, intending to trigger an explosion that would take them all down.
Nero launched.
Two hundred pounds of muscle and raw speed crossed the ten-foot gap in a fraction of a second. Nero’s massive jaws clamped around Tyrell’s right forearm before his finger could squeeze the trigger.
The gun clattered onto the concrete. Tyrell hit the floor with a agonizing scream as Nero pinned him to the ground, holding him completely immobile beneath his crushing weight.
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Dante stepped forward, reaching down to pick up the dropped service weapon. He ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and tossed the empty firearm into the burning oil drum.
“Keep him alive, Marcus,” Dante ordered smoothly, turning his back on the screaming corrupt cop. “The Federal Marshals are waiting outside.”
