Chapter 98: Ghosts of the Past-2

Vincent was waiting at the dock office when we arrived, pacing the small space like a caged animal. Behind him, through the salt-streaked window, I could see half a dozen of our men positioned around a container ship, weapons not visible but undoubtedly ready.

"What's happened?" Dominic asked, removing his coat and draping it over a chair. The office was overheated, pipes clanking as the ancient radiator worked overtime.

"The shipment from Hamburg," Vincent said. "Customs flagged it."

James frowned. "Why? Everything was in order."

"Yes, it was. That's the problem." Vincent handed Dominic a tablet. "Someone tipped them off specifically about our container. Said it contained illegal weapons."

I moved to read over Dominic's shoulder. The screen showed an email from our contact in the customs office, warning that a "credible anonymous tip" had been received about contraband weapons being smuggled in container MSCU-7392466, registered to one of our front companies.

"What's actually in the container?" I asked.

"Designer clothes, electronics, and liquor," Vincent replied. "Legitimate goods, all properly declared."

Dominic's expression darkened. "Someone's testing us."

"Or setting a trap," I suggested. "Get customs to open our clean shipment, establish a pattern of false tips, then slip something illegal into a future container and tip them off again. They'll be less likely to take it seriously."

"Clever girl," Dominic murmured, his eyes never leaving the tablet. "The question is, who?"

James moved to the window, watching the scene below. "Not my people. We've got too much riding on smooth operations."

"Aleksandr?" I suggested.

Vincent shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. He needs our cooperation in South Durham."

"Cristiano, then," Dominic said, the name falling like a challenge.

I bristled. "He wouldn't."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," I insisted. "It's not his style, and he has nothing to gain from disrupting our operations."

Dominic studied me for a long moment, then nodded once, accepting my assessment. "Then who?"

A knock on the door interrupted us. Jee-min entered, snowflakes melting on his shoulders and in his black hair. Despite approaching forty, he looked barely older than when I'd first met him.

"The customs officials are insisting on opening the container," he reported. "They've got backup on the way."

"Let them," Dominic decided. "Vincent, make sure everyone is positioned correctly. I want our people visible but not threatening. James, perhaps you could speak with the officials? Your Irish charm might smooth things over."

James nodded, already reaching for his coat. "On it."

"I'll go with him," I said.

Dominic's eyes snapped to mine. "No."

"Yes," I countered. "A man and a woman, presenting a unified front from both families. It'll be more convincing."

"It's too exposed."

"It's a customs inspection, not a war zone." I moved to retrieve my coat from where I'd draped it. "Besides, if things go sideways, I'm a better shot than James."

"Hey," James protested mildly.

I flashed him a grin. "No offense."

Dominic didn't smile. He crossed to me, lowering his voice. "We don't know who arranged this. If it is a trap—"

"Then I'll be ready." I patted my hip, where my Beretta was holstered beneath my sweater.

Something shifted in his expression—concern warring with pride. Three years ago, he would have locked me in the car rather than let me walk into potential danger. Now, he understood that I was as much a part of this life as he was. I had earned my place.

"Fine," he conceded. "But stay alert."

"Always." I stretched up to kiss him quickly, then turned to James. "Ready?"

He nodded, and together we exited the office.

Outside, the docks were eerily quiet. Snow muffled the usual sounds of machinery and shouting workers. Most operations had been suspended due to the weather, leaving only a skeleton crew to handle essential tasks. Our container ship, the Meridian Star, loomed against the gray sky, ice crusting its hull where waves had splashed and frozen.

A group of customs officials stood huddled near our container, breath visible in the cold air. Their posture was tense, hands hovering near their weapons. Behind them, I spotted the customs director, Howard Palmer, a man who had been on our payroll for nearly a decade.

"Palmer," James greeted, extending his hand. "Terrible weather to be out in."

Palmer shook his hand reluctantly. "Mr. O'Doherty. Ms. Calvetti. I wish I could say this was a pleasure."

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked innocently.

"As I explained to your colleagues, we received a specific tip about this container." Palmer looked uncomfortable, trapped between his official duties and his unofficial allegiances. "I have no choice but to investigate thoroughly."

"Of course," James agreed. "We understand completely. In fact, we insist on a thorough inspection."

Palmer's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. "You do?"

"Absolutely," I chimed in. "We run legitimate businesses, Director Palmer. We have nothing to hide."

It was a lie, of course, but a necessary one. Our legitimate businesses did exist, and this particular shipment was clean. The illegal goods—weapons, primarily—came through different channels, carefully orchestrated to avoid detection.

"Very well," Palmer said, gesturing to his team. "Open it up."

The customs agents moved forward with bolt cutters, snapping the seal on the container. The doors swung open to reveal exactly what our manifest had declared: pallets of designer clothing, still in their factory packaging; boxes of high-end electronics; and crates of premium liquor, all neatly arranged and properly labeled.

"As you can see," James began, "everything is in—"

A sharp crack echoed across the docks, cutting him off mid-sentence. For a split second, I thought it was ice breaking somewhere on the ship. Then Palmer crumpled to the ground, blood blooming across his chest.

"Sniper!" I shouted, pulling James down behind a stack of pallets as more shots rang out.

Chaos erupted. Customs agents scattered, some drawing weapons, others simply running for cover. Our men emerged from their positions, guns drawn, scanning the rooftops of nearby warehouses.

Through the confusion, I glimpsed a figure in white moving swiftly along the top of a container stack, rifle in hand. The camouflage was perfect against the snow-covered landscape.

I drew my Beretta, calculating angles and distances even as adrenaline surged through my veins. The figure disappeared behind a crane, reappearing seconds later on a lower level.

"Cover me," I told James, not waiting for his response before breaking from our hiding spot.

Running in snow was challenging, especially with my old injury, but I pushed through the pain. Years of training with Jee-min had taught me to use my environment, to move efficiently even in difficult conditions. I zigzagged between containers, using them as shields while keeping the sniper in my peripheral vision.

Another shot cracked through the air, and I heard a scream from somewhere to my right. Not one of ours, I prayed silently.

The sniper was moving toward the edge of the dock area, where a chain-link fence separated the port from an access road. If they reached a vehicle, we'd lose them.

I cut left, circling around to intercept rather than chase directly. My boots slipped on an icy patch, and I went down hard on one knee. Pain shot up my leg, bringing tears to my eyes, but I forced myself back up. No time for weakness.

The sniper was at the fence now, rifle slung across their back as they began to climb. I emerged from between two containers, gun raised.

"Stop!" I shouted.

The figure froze, then slowly turned. It was a woman, her face obscured by a white balaclava, only her eyes visible—dark, almost black.

"Hands where I can see them," I ordered, finger hovering near the trigger.

She complied, raising her gloved hands. "Clever girl," she said, her voice accented. Russian.

"Who sent you?" I demanded, advancing cautiously.

"You already know the answer to that, Jade Calvetti." Her eyes crinkled slightly—she was smiling beneath the mask. "Or should I say, little flame?"

My blood ran cold. Little flame. Pequeña llama. It was what José had called me during my captivity.

The sniper's hands moved suddenly, reaching for something at her waist. I fired without hesitation, the bullet striking her shoulder. She barely flinched, continuing her motion until she held a small device in her hand.

"He said to tell you he hasn't forgotten," she said, pressing a button. "Neither should you."

An explosion rocked the docks, the concussion throwing me backward. I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring as shipping containers collapsed around us. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard screams, the crackle of fire, and—distantly—Dominic calling my name.

The sniper was gone when my vision cleared, blood staining the snow where she had stood, a hole cut in the fence behind her.

I struggled to my feet as Dominic reached me, his face a mask of fury and fear. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, hands running over me, checking for injuries.

"I'm fine," I gasped, though my leg throbbed and my lungs burned from the smoke now billowing across the docks. "The sniper—"

"Gone. Did you see who it was?"

I nodded, leaning against him as we moved away from the spreading fire. "A woman. Russian. She said..." I swallowed hard. "She said José hasn't forgotten."

Dominic's arm tightened around me. "Impossible. José is dead."

"Are we sure? Did anyone ever confirm the body?"

His silence was answer enough. We'd assumed José had been killed in a cartel war three years ago, his power seized by Cristiano. But assumptions were dangerous in our world.

"We need to get out of here," Dominic said as sirens wailed in the distance. "This isn't over."

Looking back at the inferno that had once been our shipping container, I knew he was right. This wasn't just a test or a trap. It was a declaration of war.

And if José García was truly alive, we were all in danger.