Chapter 24 - The Battle of Pump Station 4
The first black-clad contractor rappelled through the shattered window with breathtaking speed, his boots hitting the metal catwalk with a heavy clank, his short-barreled rifle already tracking toward our position.
Ethan didn't hesitate. His Sig barked twice in rapid succession. The contractor spun hard against the iron railing, dropping his weapon as he tumbled over the edge, plunging thirty feet down into the dry dock below.
"More coming down!" Miller yelled, drawing a surprisingly well-maintained Colt .45 M1911 from his canvas jacket and firing upward toward the high windows where two more ropes were unspooling.
"Madison, move!" Ethan grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the heavy steel bulkhead door at the far end of the dry dock—the secondary drainage exit that led directly out to the open waters of the Elizabeth River where an old Coast Guard skiff was moored to a rotting wooden pier.
Ghost stayed right at our heels, leaping across rusted industrial pipes and dodging falling debris with athletic grace.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Automatic gunfire erupted from the upper catwalks as four more contractors landed simultaneously, chewing up the concrete floor around us and sending sparks flying off the rusted iron turbines.
"Suppressing fire!" Miller roared, emptying his M1911 in a controlled, rhythmic sequence that forced the incoming operators to duck behind the massive water turbine housings.
We reached the bulkhead door at the end of the catwalk. Ethan slammed his weight against the iron latch, throwing the heavy deadbolt open just as a round chipped the concrete wall an inch from his ear.
"Out! Go!" Ethan shoved me through the opening into the bright, open air of the riverside pier.
The cold wind off the Elizabeth River hit us instantly. Moored to the rotting wooden pilings was a sturdy, twin-engine Boston Whaler skiff, its keys dangling right in the ignition—a parting gift from Chief Miller’s foresight.
"Get in the boat!" Ethan shouted, covering the doorway while Ghost leaped gracefully over the gunwale into the bow of the skiff.
I scrambled into the cockpit, my hands flying across the ignition switches, firing up both outboard engines with a deep, throaty roar that echoed off the concrete pilings of the shipyard.
Miller and Ethan backed through the bulkhead door, returning fire with their remaining ammunition before diving into the skiff just as a hail of automatic rifle fire chewed through the wooden pier behind us.
"Punch it!" Miller yelled, slamming the gunwale with his palm.
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I slammed the twin throttles forward. The skiff surged ahead with blinding acceleration, lifting its bow out of the choppy gray water as we rocketed away from the pump station into the wide, open expanse of the bay.
Behind us, figures in black tactical gear poured out onto the ruined pier, firing futilely into our wake as the distance between us widened until we were nothing more than a ghost vanishing into the grey maritime fog.
