Chapter 13 - Burn The City Down
Pier 41 loomed out of the Atlantic fog like an iron graveyard.
The rain had returned with a vengeance, driving sideways against the windshield as Alex slammed the brakes, skidding the black sedan sideways across the rain-slicked asphalt of the container yard. Giant gantry cranes stood frozen against the charcoal dawn sky, their steel cables humming in the gale-force winds.
At the edge of the deepwater dock sat the Coronado—a three-hundred-foot cargo vessel, its diesel exhaust belching thick black plumes into the mist.
Ahead of them, Salvatore Moretti’s fleeing sedan had ploughed directly through the chain-link security gate. The crumpled vehicle sat empty near the gangway, both front doors hanging open, motor oil pooling on the tarmac.
"The ship’s lines are still tied off," Dante said from the backseat, peering through the rain-streaked window. "He hasn't cleared the channel. But he’s got at least eight men on the lower deck."
Alex killed the engine. The sudden silence inside the car was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof and the harsh sound of their breathing.
"Nina," Alex said, turning to face her.
His eyes were dead calm, stripped of all fury, leaving only the cold, unyielding core of the man who ruled South Boston’s shadows. He reached out, his thumb gently catching a wet strand of hair plastered to her temple, tucking it behind her ear.
"You stay in the car," he said softly. "The glass is ballistic grade. Lock the secondary pins from the console. If anyone other than me or Dante knocks on this window, you keep your head down and wait for the federal strike team."
Nina gripped his wrist before he could pull away. Her fingers were cold, but her touch was tight, refusing to yield.
"You don't get to die out there, Alex," she whispered, her voice fierce. "Not after coming to my door in Dorchester. Not after dragging me through a church crypt. You finish this, and you come back to this car."
A faint, wicked smirk touched Alex’s lips. He leaned across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck, and brought his mouth down hard on hers. The kiss was brief, bruising, and tasted of salt and gunpowder.
"I don't leave audits unfinished either, Miss Surell," he murmured against her lips.
He pulled away, drew his weapon, and kicked open the driver’s door.
Alex and Dante slipped out into the storm like two wraiths, moving low between the towering rows of stacked shipping containers. Nina hit the console lock; the heavy steel pins snapped into place, sealing her inside the armored chassis.
She clutched the green leather ledger to her chest, her eyes glued to the open gangway of the Coronado.
For two minutes, there was only the wind and the groan of shifting steel.
Then the gunfire started.
It wasn't the neat, surgical double-taps of the office corridor. It was a sustained, deafening roar of automatic weapons echoing off the metal containers. Muzzle flashes lit up the open cargo deck of the ship in stuttering bursts of white and yellow.
Nina watched through the rain-blurred glass, her heart hammering against her ribs so violently she could barely draw breath. She saw Dante take position behind a hydraulic crane support, laying down heavy cover fire while Alex scaled the narrow steel exterior ladder of the ship, moving with terrifying speed.
A figure appeared on the upper observation deck—Salvatore Moretti, holding a remote detonator in one hand and an automatic rifle in the other.
Above the sound of the storm, a loudspeaker crackled over the dock’s public address system. Salvatore’s voice boomed across the water, cracked and manic:
"Alex! You want the manifests? You want the empire? Come down to the cargo hold and take them! The whole bay goes up in sixty seconds!"
Nina’s eyes darted down to the open green ledger in her lap.
Her gaze fell on the third page of the handwritten cargo manifests: Bay 4. Sub-deck liquid ballast tanks.
Her breath hitched.
The chemical barrels weren't just contraband—they were volatile industrial solvents. If Salvatore triggered an incendiary charge in the ballast tanks, the resulting chemical explosion wouldn't just sink the Coronado. The blast wave would vaporize Pier 41, igniting the adjacent fuel refinery tanks along the harbor edge.
And Alex was climbing straight toward the deck.
"No," Nina gasped.
She looked at the car door. Then at the console.
The sensible choice was to stay behind two inches of bulletproof glass and wait for the tactical units. The accountant’s choice was to preserve the evidence.
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Nina Surell slammed her palm onto the console release. The heavy steel pins retracted with a sharp hydraulic hiss.
She shoved the green ledger and the encrypted drive into the inner pocket of Alex’s oversized cashmere sweater, kicked the heavy door open, and ran headlong into the teeth of the storm.
