Chapter 6 - The Breach at Tank Farm Four
The industrial wasteland of Port Newark was choked with freezing sea mist and the heavy, sulfurous stench of unrefined petroleum as our six-vehicle armored convoy cleared the commercial security gates at 7:15 AM.
Tank Farm Four was a sprawling, twenty-acre labyrinth of massive white cylindrical fuel reservoirs, rusted pipe manifolds, and elevated catwalks overlooking the dark waters of Newark Bay.
Three armored black transport vans sat idling beside the main pumping station, surrounded by thirty men in heavy tactical gear armed with automatic weapons, frantically loading heavy aluminum currency cases into the rear cargo bays.
In the center of the loading apron, wearing a fur-collared leather coat, holding a satellite phone to his ear, stood Victor Ivanov.
Our convoy did not slow down.
The lead armored Suburban struck the chain-link perimeter gate at fifty miles an hour, tearing the steel posts from their concrete footings in a violent shower of sparks and severed chain.
The six vehicles fanned out across the asphalt apron in a synchronized tactical wedge, their high-intensity xenon beams blinding the Russian mercenaries, cutting off every vehicle exit toward the highway.
Twenty armed operators from the Castile private security division swarmed from the vehicles, carbines raised at the high ready, their movements executed with the terrifying, clinical discipline of private military contractors.
"Drop your weapons! Face the ground! Now!" Marco’s voice boomed through the vehicle-mounted public address system.
Ivanov’s men panicked.
A mercenary on an elevated catwalk raised a Kalashnikov, firing a wild, stuttering burst that chewed through the armored windshield of my lead Suburban.
The response was instant and devastating.
Two sniper rounds from my perimeter marksmen took the shooter off the catwalk; his body plunged forty feet into an empty retention basin with a dull, hollow crash.
The remaining twenty-nine mercenaries, realizing they were surrounded by superior tactical firepower and facing federal felony warrants, threw their automatic rifles onto the oil-stained asphalt, falling face-down with their hands locked behind their heads.
I stepped out of the command vehicle, opening an umbrella against the freezing drizzle, extending my hand back into the cabin.
Clara stepped out beside me.
She wore her black tailored suit beneath a heavy black cashmere coat, the Siberian jade pendant glowing against her throat, her amber eyes burning with absolute, sovereign triumph.
May you like
Victor Ivanov stood frozen beside his armored van, the satellite phone slipping from his trembling fingers, shattering against the wet concrete.
He stared at Clara, his face draining of every drop of blood, looking like a man who had finally reached the end of an inescapable nightmare.
