Chapter 5 - Midnight on the Docks
The rain had turned into a slashing sleet by the time Luca’s black armored Maybach tore through the security perimeter of the Port of Chicago. David Vance was driving, his hands steady on the wheel as the tires hissed over the slick asphalt of the industrial access road.
I sat in the back next to Luca. In my lap was an encrypted tablet Vance had handed me five minutes into the drive, its screen glowing with the architectural schematics of Terminal B.
"Look at the entry logs for the last two hours, Emma," Luca commanded, leaning over my shoulder. The scent of his cedarwood cologne and the cold dampness of the night air filled the car. "The automated gate in Sector 4 uses an optical scanner for container serials. If Enzo slipped three boxes inside, they had to be registered under an existing cargo manifest."
My fingers flew across the glass. My years of tracking inventory under the crushing pressure of my family's debts had given me an obsessive eye for number patterns.
"Here," I said, zooming in on the freight manifests. "At 11:18 PM, three refrigerated containers entered through the auxiliary rail gate. They were registered under *Cattaneo Imports*—that’s an agricultural subsidiary based out of Kenosha."
"Cattaneo went bankrupt six months ago," Vance called out from the front seat, checking his rearview mirror as blue emergency lights flashed in the far distance behind us. "Their shell company was bought out by an investment group in Delaware."
"An investment group managed by Francesca Bellini's brother," Luca said, his voice flat and lethal. "What’s listed as the cargo, Emma?"
"Preserved San Marzano tomatoes and extra-virgin olive oil," I answered, scrolling down the customs declarations. "Weight is listed at forty-four thousand pounds per box. But look at the axle scale readout from the gate sensor."
Luca leaned closer, his arm brushing against mine. "The axle weight is light. Twenty-eight thousand pounds."
"They aren't carrying olive oil," I said, looking up at him. "Olive oil at forty-four thousand pounds would compress the hydraulic suspension to the maximum limit. If the containers are sixteen thousand pounds light, the boxes are mostly hollow."
"Or filled with something much lighter and far more illegal," Vance muttered. "Customs won't care about the weight discrepancy. If they open those doors and find untaxed narcotics or unregistered weapons with Moretti Logistics shipping tags on them, the federal government will impound the entire terminal under civil asset forfeiture."
"Which automatically voids our city lease," Luca said, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying precision. "And under the terms of the municipal development contract, if Moretti Maritime loses the lease due to criminal indictment, the secondary bidder assumes control of the harbor expansion without an open vote."
"And the secondary bidder," I whispered, "is Bellini Harbor Logistics."
"They don't care about saving Enzo's catering business," Luca said, cold fury radiating from him. "The catering scandal was a distraction. Vanessa orchestrated the dinner scene tonight to keep me at the house until midnight, arguing over guest counts and stolen wine, while her family slipped the kill-shot into my warehouse."
The car skidded around a towering pyramid of rusted shipping containers and screeched to a halt in front of Warehouse 12.
The vast steel building was lit by harsh sodium-vapor floodlights that buzzed against the freezing rain. In the distance, the wail of sirens was growing louder, echoing off the steel hulls of the ore freighters docked along the Calumet River. The customs agents were less than five minutes away.
"Vance, get the yard cranes moving," Luca ordered, throwing his door open into the bitter gale. "Emma, come with me."
We stepped out into the biting wind. The slush soaked through my thin dress shoes, but the adrenaline surging through my veins burned away the cold. We ran through the small side door of Warehouse 12, stepping into an echoey cavern filled with towering stacks of wooden pallets, forklifts, and three bright yellow shipping containers sitting in the center of the staging bay.
Standing near the containers was Enzo Bellini.
He was thirty-five, wearing a rain-slicked wool coat and a nervous, twitching scowl. Two heavy-set men in dockworker coveralls stood beside him, holding crowbars.
When the door slammed shut behind Luca and me, Enzo jumped, his hand darting toward the inside pocket of his coat.
"Don't do it, Enzo," Luca said, walking forward with a terrifying, steady calm. He didn't have a weapon drawn, but his presence was so suffocating that the two dockworkers instinctively took a step back. "You pull a piece out of that jacket, and you won't live to see the customs van pull up."
"Luca," Enzo stammered, trying to muster a swagger that collapsed instantly. "You shouldn't be here. This is a private customs bonded area—"
"This is my terminal," Luca said, stopping six feet away. "My land. My concrete. And those containers are sitting on my bay."
Enzo glanced at the high metal rafters, listening to the sirens approaching outside the perimeter fence. A nasty, desperate grin spread across his face. "Doesn't matter if you're here. The tip is already in. Homeland Security and Customs have the search warrant. In about three minutes, they're going to breach that gate, open these boxes, and find sixty crates of untraced automatic firearms marked with your shipping manifests. You're done, Moretti. Vanessa sends her regards."
"Emma," Luca said, completely ignoring Enzo. "Where are the crane manifests for Bay 4?"
I immediately looked at the terminal control board mounted on the wall twenty yards away, then down at my tablet. "The overhead gantry crane is linked to the automated dry-dock transfer rail. It's programmed to dump scrap metal into the deep-water channel for the harbor reinforcement barrier."
"Can you override the terminal coordinates?" Luca asked.
"Hey! Don't touch that board!" Enzo yelled, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his coat.
Before the barrel could level, Luca moved with explosive speed. He closed the distance in a single stride, his left hand clamping down on Enzo’s wrist, twisting it violently downward. A sharp snap echoed through the warehouse, followed by Enzo's high-pitched scream of agony as the gun clattered onto the concrete floor.
Luca drove his elbow into Enzo’s sternum, dropping the man to his knees, gasping for air. The two dockworkers dropped their crowbars and raised their hands in surrender.
"Emma," Luca said, his breathing barely elevated. "Override the coordinates. Now."
I sprinted to the control station, my fingers flying over the physical levers and the emergency keyboard. The sirens were right outside the main gates now; the flashing red and blue lights were strobing through the frosted glass windows of the warehouse.
"Override engaged!" I yelled, slamming the master interlock down. "Target bay: Deep-channel dredge barge outside the bonded zone!"
"Lift them," Luca ordered.
May you like
High above us, the massive steel claw of the automated gantry crane roared to life with a deafening electrical whine. The cables descended, locking into the corner castings of the first yellow container with a heavy, metallic *CLANG*.
***
