Chapter 8 - Night of the Vipers
The rain returned to the docks, turning into a heavy downpour that drummed against the metal roofs of the harbor warehouses. Inside Pier 42, the air was cold and filled with the smell of diesel and rust.
Marcus and four armed Vipers took positions behind heavy wooden crates near the central bay doors, their shotguns pointed at the entrance. Julian stood on the upper catwalk overlooking the floor, clutching a handgun, his eyes frantically scanning the gloom.
“Check the perimeter again!” Julian shouted down to Marcus. “The override signal has been running for five minutes! He should be here!”
Suddenly, the massive overhead lights of the warehouse flickered once, twice, and died completely, plunging the space into total darkness.
Panicked shouts echoed through the vast building.
“What happened to the lights?!” Marcus yelled, racking his shotgun with a heavy metallic clack.
Before anyone could answer, a flashbang grenade bounced across the concrete floor, exploding with a deafening roar and a blinding burst of white light.
Chaos erupted.
Vance stepped through a shattered side window, moving like a phantom in the smoke. His night-vision visor illuminated the disoriented gunmen in bright emerald hues. He moved swiftly, disarming the first Viper with a precise blow to the wrist, sweeping his legs out from under him, and sending him crashing into a stack of steel drums.
Another gang member raised an assault rifle, but Vance closed the gap instantly. He grabbed the rifle’s barrel, turning it away as a burst of automatic fire chewed harmlessly into the rafters above. Vance delivered a driving side-kick to the man’s ribs, dropping him instantly to the cold floor.
On the upper catwalk, Julian heard the sounds of heavy impacts and groan echoing through the dark below. “Fire! Fire at the lower floor!” he screamed in terror.
Marcus swung his shotgun toward the shadow moving through the mist, firing wildly. The heavy pellet spread shattered a row of wooden pallets, but Vance was already gone, rolling behind a concrete pillar.
Vance drew his sidearm and fired three precise shots into the catwalk’s support cables above Marcus’s head. The steel line snapped with a sound like a gunshot, sending a section of heavy iron grating crashing down directly on top of Marcus and his remaining men.
The heavy iron pinned Marcus to the ground, trapping his legs and knocking the shotgun from his grip.
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Vance stepped out of the shadows, coming to a stop at the foot of the catwalk stairs. He looked up through the drifting smoke to where Julian stood alone, trembling, his gun pointed down with shaking hands.
“It’s over, Julian,” Vance said, his voice cutting clearly through the hum of the rain. “Drop the weapon.”
