Chapter 9 - Harbor Shadows
The rough concrete scraped hard against my palms and knees as I hit the ground, but adrenaline burned hot and fast through my veins, blotting out the pain.
Shouts erupted behind me.
“Stop right there! Federal compliance order—!”
I didn't look back. I scrambled to my feet and bolted toward the labyrinth of rusted shipping containers stacked high along the edge of the Charleston pier. The dark, oily water of the harbor lapped sluggishly against the wooden pilings just beyond the concrete ledge, smelling of salt, diesel, and rotting kelp.
Footsteps pounded heavily behind me on the asphalt—fast, rhythmic, disciplined. Military pacing. They weren't standard local cops; they were private security contractors trained in tactical pursuit.
I ducked sharply into a narrow, shadowy corridor between two towering red and blue shipping containers. The light from the pier’s overhead halogen lamps barely cut into the deep gloom, casting long, fractured shadows across the damp ground.
My breath came in ragged, burning gasps. I pressed my back hard against the corrugated metal wall of a container, sliding slowly down into a crouch to muffle the sound of my breathing.
A flashlight beam swept across the mouth of the alleyway, cutting a bright, sterile swath through the darkness. jurisdiction.
“Check the perimeter toward the water,” a voice barked—one of the tactical operatives. “She can’t get past the slip. The fencing is locked on both sides.”
Footsteps slowed, pausing right at the entrance of my alley.
I closed my eyes, my hand sliding slowly into the deep pocket of my blazer. My fingers brushed against a small, metallic object I had slipped off the dashboard of Julian’s BMW during the scuffle: the car’s emergency master key fob, equipped with a long-range panic signal linked directly to the local port security frequency.
If I pressed the transponder, it would trigger every automated gate alarm along the entire Charleston commercial dock within a three-mile radius, bringing local harbor police straight down onto our position before Arthur Vance’s men could extract us.
The flashlight beam flickered closer, illuminating the wet toes of my low heels just three feet away.
“Found her tracks,” the operative muttered into his comm-unit.
I didn't hesitate. I pressed my thumb down hard on the transponder button.
WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!
A deafening, high-pitched siren erupted from a dozen automated security towers across the entire harbor front, flooding the dark docks with blinding, rotating amber warning strobes.
The operative swore loudly, blinded by the sudden wash of light. I lunged forward out of the shadows, slamming my shoulder directly into his chest and knocking him off balance just as he reached for his holster.
He stumbled backward, splashing heavily into the dark, freezing water of the harbor slip.
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I didn't stop to look. I sprinted toward the main access gate at the end of the pier, where the red and white warning lights of approaching police cruisers were already flashing down the access road.
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