Chapter 4 - The Empty Slip
The heavy steel fire door leading out to Pier 14 banged open against the brick wall with a loud, ringing crash. The salty wind whipped my hair across my face as I sprinted down the concrete apron, my combat boots pounding a frantic rhythm against the ground.
Master Chief Kettleman and Agent Vance were right on my heels, their heavy breathing matching my own.
As we rounded the massive grey hull of a docked logistics vessel, the open slip of Pier 14 came into view. The sight waiting for us made my blood run cold.
The security detail assigned to the supply tender was tied up and slumped unconscious against a stack of cargo containers, their mouths taped shut with heavy-duty zip ties. The massive hydraulic loading ramp of the transport vessel was lowered halfway, resting precariously against the wooden edge of the pier.
Inside the cavernous cargo hold, industrial shelving units had been pried open, and three heavy military-grade steel crates—each containing millions of dollars in classified naval microprocessors—were completely missing.
"All units, all units! Code Red at Pier 14! We have an active cargo breach and multiple downed personnel!" Kettleman roared into his shoulder-mounted tactical radio, his voice echoing sharply across the empty harbor.
I stepped cautiously up the hydraulic ramp, drawing my sidearm from its holster, my eyes scanning the dim shadows of the vessel's interior deck. The air smelled of ozone, heavy diesel exhaust, and fresh rubber tire tracks left by a fast-moving utility cart.
In the center of the loading bay, resting on top of a discarded clipboard, was a single sheet of heavy bond paper. I walked over, crouching down to inspect it without disturbing any potential latent fingerprints.
Printed across the page in crisp, bold lettering was a message addressed directly to me:
Thanks for the credentials, Marlo. Family really does come first.
My finger tightened around the grip of my weapon. The signature at the bottom wasn't a pseudonym. It was a corporate seal belonging to Apex Maritime Logistics—the exact shipping conglomerate owned by a man named Bram Vance.
No relation to the NCIS agent, but a name I recognized instantly from a high-profile federal corruption probe I had worked three years ago in San Diego—a case that had been mysteriously buried by the Department of Justice before it ever reached a courtroom.
A sharp footstep echoed behind me on the steel ramp. I spun around, raising my weapon—and found Agent Vance standing at the entrance of the hold, staring down at the printed note with an expression of profound, sickening realization.
May you like
"Bram Vance," the NCIS agent whispered, his face turning pale. "He's not just a local contractor, Commander. He's my cousin. And he's been running a black-market tech smuggling ring out of this naval district for the last five years."
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