“The old dry docks,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave. “The northern edge of the Brighton yard. It’s the only section that still borders the stagnant water of the old harbor canal. The cranes out there are rusted shut. They would have to heavily grease the joints to get a container door open if it’s been sitting out there.”
Elias tapped a key on the console, pulling up a satellite map of the shipyard. He highlighted a small, isolated cluster of containers sitting precariously close to the dark water of the canal.
“There are only twelve containers in that sector,” Elias said, a dangerous edge returning to his voice. “Thermal imaging shows a faint heat signature in container 40-B. It’s too small to be a grown man.”
Henri let out a strangled gasp, falling to his knees. “Leo. It’s him. You have to go. Please!”
Dante turned away from the screen, his face hardening into a mask of pure, calculated violence. He looked at Elias. “Assemble the breach team. Suppressed weapons only. I want Vance’s guards handled quietly before they know we’re on the property.”
“And Vance?” Elias asked.
“Vance thinks I’m dead, or dying in a hospital,” Dante said, buttoning his collar. “Call his private line. Tell him his assassin succeeded. Tell him I’m dead, and my associates want to meet to negotiate the port contracts to avoid a bloodbath.”
“Where?”
Dante’s eyes flickered to the image of the isolated shipping containers. “Tell him to meet us at the Brighton shipyard. Section 40. Tell him to come alone, to confirm the deal.”
Clara watched as the men moved into action, the room buzzing with lethal efficiency. She felt a sudden, terrifying wave of isolation. She had helped them. Her part was done. Now she was just a waitress in a billionaire’s command center, surrounded by men preparing for war.
Dante stopped in front of her, pausing before he headed for the armory.
“Dr. Aris is going to keep you here under observation,” Dante said, his tone softening only slightly. “You are safe here, Clara. No one will ever touch you again.”
Clara looked at her bandaged arm, feeling the faint, lingering numbness. She looked at Henri, who was still weeping on the floor, clutching a photograph of his son.
“I want to go with you,” Clara said.
Dante shook his head immediately. “Absolutely not. It’s going to be a tactical strike.”
“If Vance is the one who made the poison,” Clara insisted, stepping closer to him, her voice trembling but refusing to break, “he’s the only one who knows exactly what it is. Dr. Aris stabilized me, but my arm is still numb. What if there’s a secondary reaction? What if I relapse?”
Dante looked at Dr. Aris, who gave a slow, reluctant nod. “The synthetic compounds are unpredictable, sir. A direct antidote from the manufacturer would guarantee her survival.”
Dante looked back down at Clara. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in her eyes, matched only by a stubborn, fierce will to live. She wasn't just a casualty anymore. She was part of this.
“Elias,” Dante barked over his shoulder. “Put her in the armored transport with the medical kit. She stays in the vehicle.”
He looked Clara dead in the eye. “You don't step out of the truck. Do you understand me?”
Clara nodded tightly. “Get the boy. And get the antidote.”
Chapter 3: The Exchange
The abandoned Brighton shipyard was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted metal, decaying concrete, and towering shadows. The smell of diesel fuel and stagnant harbor water was thick in the cold night air, exactly as Clara had remembered it from the assassin’s glove.
Dante’s black armored SUV rolled silently to a halt behind a towering stack of shipping containers.
Clara sat in the back seat, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Henri sat beside her, clutching his hands together in silent prayer. Through the tinted, bulletproof glass, Clara could see Dante standing in the open clearing ahead.
He stood alone under the pale glow of a single halogen floodlight, wearing his tailored suit, a figure of absolute authority amid the industrial ruin.