Emma’s grandmother smiled and told her they had “run out” of Disney tickets, but she had no idea what I was about to cancel from my phone. / Chapter 99 / 111

Chapter 99 - The Standoff at Pier Seventeen

The Port of Newark was a forest of towering steel gantry cranes, silhouetted like prehistoric monsters against the pre-dawn mist rising from Newark Bay. Rows upon rows of brightly colored shipping containers formed endless, echoing canyons of steel.

I killed the Audi’s headlights three hundred yards from the security gate of Pier 17.

The rain had turned to sleet, coating the black asphalt with a thin, treacherous sheet of ice. Docked at the end of the long concrete pier was the *Odessa Star*—a four-hundred-foot, rusted container vessel flying a Panamanian flag of convenience. Its diesel auxiliary engines were already rumbling, sending thick plumes of black exhaust into the freezing air. Mooring lines as thick as my thigh were being uncoiled on the aft deck.

Near the gangway, four black SUVs formed a semi-circle around a white, climate-controlled refrigerated container resting on a flatbed semi-trailer.

A dozen men in heavy tactical gear, armed with Austrian assault rifles, stood guard in the freezing drizzle.

And standing at the foot of the gangway, smoking a long cigar under a black umbrella held by an aide, was Arthur Vance.

I didn't try to sneak past them. Stealth was dead. The sun was threatening to break the horizon in twenty minutes, and once that ship slipped its moorings, Emma would be in international waters where no law, no badge, and no father could ever reach her.

I jammed the Audi into gear, floored the accelerator, and slammed through the chain-link security gate at seventy miles per hour.

The gate tore away with a deafening screech of ripping metal. Gunfire erupted instantly.

Rounds tore through the Audi’s radiator and shattered the windshield into an opaque web of frosted safety glass. I ducked low across the center console, steering by instinct, heading straight for the cluster of black SUVs.

*CRASH!*

The Audi slammed into the side of the lead Suburban, spinning it forty-five degrees and creating an instant barrier of twisted steel. The impact launched my airbag, hitting me like a baseball bat to the face, but the tactical vest absorbed the brunt of the steering column’s crush.

I kicked open the driver's door, rolled out onto the frozen concrete, and came up firing.

Two syndicate guards fell before they even registered I had cleared the wreckage. I sprinted through the blinding muzzle flashes, ducking behind the massive steel wheels of the flatbed trailer carrying the container.

"Hold your fire!"

Arthur’s voice boomed through an electric megaphone from the gangway. "Cease fire! Cease fire, you idiots! He has the briefcase!"

The gunfire sputtered and died, replaced only by the steady hiss of escaping steam from my shattered radiator and the deep, throbbing hum of the ship’s engines.

"Step out, David!" Arthur called out, his voice dripping with condescending patience. "You made good time. I knew you'd figure out Cole was playing his own angle. The man was always too eager for a promotion."

I stepped out from behind the trailer’s tandem axle, my Glock held in a low-ready position. Blood was trickling down my temple from a cut on my hairline, mixing with the freezing sleet on my face.