Chapter 17 - Ghost from the Deep
Within forty minutes, the decommissioned pier was cordoned off by a combined task force of Port Authority Police, the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, and US Fish and Wildlife special agents.
Dr. Rebecca Shaw arrived in her mobile veterinary surgery unit, carrying four pressurized cases of broad-spectrum polyvalent antivenom.
"If that box is active, Marcus, we aren't dealing with a leftover shipment," Shaw said as she snapped on nitrile gloves near my 4Runner. "A cold-blooded shipment left unattended for eight months would be dead. If the internal heat pumps are running, someone has been servicing this container within the last forty-eight hours."
Federal agents in heavy biohazard containment suits used hydraulic shears to sever the forged chains. When the heavy steel doors swung outward with a hollow screech of rusted hinges, the interior revealed a chilling setup.
The container was not packed with standard freight pallets. It was a mobile, self-contained biological laboratory and holding pen.
Plexiglass terrariums lined the aluminum walls, fitted with individual heat lamps, digital humidity regulators, and automated feeding tubes. Most of the glass cages were empty, but at the rear of the forty-foot chamber, three heavy composite containers remained sealed. Inside each, coiled behind reinforced polycarbonate walls, were mature specimens of Dendroaspis polylepis—Black Mambas, imported through maritime channels from East Africa.
"Mother of God," an FBI agent breathed, stepping back out into the rain, his respirator fogged with sweat. "Who the hell is running this?"
"Look at the manifest clipboard on the workbench," I said, pointing through the door with my tactical flashlight.
Laminated to the metal desk was a routing slip bearing a fresh timestamp from three days ago. The destination address wasn't a biological institute or a private collector.
It was addressed to the private residence of David Vance on Bainbridge Island, marked under the fraudulent freight code: Agricultural Soil Enhancer - Priority Delivery.
A shadow stepped from behind the administrative building fifty yards away across the rail spur.
Titan caught the movement before any human eye could process it through the drizzle. His ears swiveled, his body lowering into a predator’s crouch. A tall man in a dark yellow maritime rain slicker dropped a pair of heavy binoculars, turned sharply on his heel, and sprinted down the narrow access alley between the stacked cargo crates.
"Suspect running north toward Pier 9!" I yelled into my radio shoulder mic, unclipping Titan’s lead. "Titan, track! Voran!"
Titan surged forward across the wet asphalt like a black projectile. His paws found immediate purchase on the slick surface, his muscular shoulders working in perfect, fluid piston strokes.
The suspect reached a parked forklift, pulling a heavy fire extinguisher from its bracket and hurling it backward across the alleyway to trip the pursuit. The metal canister clattered across the pavement, spewing white dry-chemical powder.
Titan didn't even flinch. He vaulted the flying canister mid-air with inches to spare, clearing the obstacle without breaking stride.
The man turned, reaching into his slicker for a sidearm, but Titan was already airborne.
Eighty-five pounds of Malinois drove straight into the suspect’s chest, slamming him against the rusted steel hull of a twenty-foot container. The impact knocked the weapon out of the man’s grip, sending it skittering across the tracks into a storm drain.
Titan pinned the suspect to the ground with one massive paw on his sternum, his jaws open, teeth hovering half an inch above the man’s throat, rumbling with a fury that froze the runner in place.
"Don't move! Don't you dare move!" I shouted, rounding the corner with my Glock leveled at the suspect’s face.
May you like
The man was panting, his lips drawn back in a mocking, humorless grin despite the fangs inches from his jugular. His accent was thick, Eastern European.
"You're too late, handler," the man spat, blood from a split lip staining his teeth. "The shipment on the dock is just the distraction. Did you really think Raymond Cross was the head of the snake? Cross was a local politician who took checks. The real owners... they don't like losing their investments. They know where your little girl sleeps."
