Chapter 4 - The Strike at Pier 42
Thursday arrived with a heavy gray fog rolling off the Chesapeake Bay, wrapping the Baltimore waterfront in a cold, damp shroud.
Inside the master bedroom of the Mercer estate, Riley was helping Jonah adjust his tailored black charcoal suit.
He wasn't wearing his athletic clothes today. He was dressed as the Boss. A crisp white silk shirt, a dark tie, polished leather shoes on his footrests, and a black cashmere coat draped over his broad shoulders.
"You look terrifying," Riley noted, adjusting his collar. Her hands lingered at his chest for a second.
"That's the point," Jonah said. He reached up, grasping her hand resting on his lapel. "You're staying here with the security team, Riley. Frank and six armed men are coming with me to Pier 42."
Riley frowned, pulling her hand back slightly. "Like hell I am. You need a caregiver with you. What if your spasms start? What if you need medication transfer? You think Frank knows how to manage your autonomic dysreflexia if your blood pressure spikes?"
"Riley, it's dangerous," Jonah argued, his brows furrowing.
"I don't care," she said stubbornly. "I'm coming. I'll sit in the back of the SUV with my medical bag. You won't even know I'm there."
Jonah stared at her, seeing the absolute refusal to yield in her eyes. He let out a defeated sigh. "If anything goes wrong, you stay in the armored vehicle. Do you understand me? That is an order, Ms. Quinn."
"Whatever you say, Boss."
At 10:00 AM, a convoy of three black armored SUVs pulled up to the rusted iron gates of Pier 42.
The harbor was eerie and quiet, the sound of foghorns echoing in the distance. Dozens of massive shipping containers were stacked like giant steel blocks around the concrete dock.
Standing near a crane near the edge of the water was Marcus Reed, flanked by twelve heavily armed men holding submachine guns.
The door of the center SUV opened. Frank pulled out the foldable ramp, and Jonah rolled himself out onto the wet asphalt, his face set like carved granite.
Riley remained in the back seat of the SUV, her medical bag clutched tightly in her lap, watching through the heavily tinted bulletproof glass.
"Marcus," Jonah called out, his voice cutting through the fog like a blade.
Marcus smirked, stepping forward, his hands in his coat pockets. "Jonah. You actually came out of your fortress. I'm impressed. I thought you'd send a proxy."
"I don't send proxies to clean up trash," Jonah said smoothly, rolling his chair forward until he was ten feet from Marcus. Frank stood directly behind him, his hand resting on his sidearm. "Where is the Marseille crate?"
Marcus chuckled, waving his hand toward a red shipping container behind him. "Right here. But I'm afraid there's been a change of plans, Jonah."
Marcus pulled a small black remote control from his pocket and pressed a button.
Instantly, the heavy steel doors of the surrounding shipping containers swung open. Eighteen more armed men stepped out, surrounding Jonah's small team from every angle.
Frank drew his gun immediately, but Jonah raised his hand calmly.
"You really are predictable, Marcus," Jonah said, his tone entirely devoid of panic.
"Predictable?" Marcus laughed, his voice echoing off the containers. "You're trapped in a wheelchair on my dock, surrounded by thirty guns! I owned this shipment six months ago, Jonah! I was the one who paid the sniper on I-95! And today, I finish the job!"
Marcus raised his hand to order his men to open fire.
Inside the SUV, Riley’s heart stopped. "Jonah!" she screamed, reaching for the door handle.
"Wait, ma'am!" the driver barked, holding her back. "Watch!"
Before Marcus could bring his hand down, Jonah reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small silver device. He pressed the switch.
High above the pier, on the massive cargo cranes, halogen floodlights suddenly exploded to life with a blinding, deafening roar, illuminating the entire dock in brilliant, blinding white light.
At the same exact second, the sound of heavy tactical helicopters roared overhead. Federal agents in tactical gear began rappelling down ropes from the sky, while armored FBI vehicles burst through the wooden perimeter fences of the pier.
"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" a megaphone bellowed from the lead helicopter. "DROP YOUR WEAPONS IMMEDIATELY!"
Marcus's men panicked, dropping their guns and raising their hands as dozens of federal agents swarmed the dock, pinning Marcus's crew to the concrete.
Marcus stood frozen in absolute horror, the blinding floodlights reflecting off his pale, sweating face.
"How... how..." Marcus stammered, looking at Jonah.
Jonah rolled his chair forward until he was right in front of Marcus. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a signed legal document.
"I didn't come here to kill you, Marcus," Jonah said softly, handing the paper to the lead FBI agent who stepped beside his chair. "I made a deal with the Organized Crime Task Force three weeks ago. Immunity for my logistics firm in exchange for complete evidence of your human trafficking and money laundering operations."
The FBI agent slapped heavy steel handcuffs onto Marcus's wrists.
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Marcus stared at Jonah with pure, unadulterated venom. "You sold out the family?! You're a rat?!"
"No," Jonah said, his gray eyes ice-cold. "I am a businessman who just cleaned his house."
