Chapter 12 - Hunt at the Docks
The river docks at the edge of Pine Ridge were a graveyard of rusted shipping containers, decaying cranes, and abandoned warehouses. The thick river fog hung low over the black water, muffling the sound of the churning current.
Sheriff Vance’s SUV cut its headlights half a mile from the dock entrance. He stepped out into the damp chill, racking the slide of his Glock, his eyes sweeping the quiet rows of rusted steel containers. Behind him, three federal tactical vehicles pulled into position, blocking off the main exit routes.
"Cover the perimeter," Vance told the SWAT team leader softly. "Miller knows these docks. He used to work security here before he joined the force. I’m going in."
"Sheriff, let SWAT take the lead," the team leader advised.
"He was my deputy," Vance replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He’s my responsibility."
Vance moved silently through the labyrinth of shipping containers, his tactical flashlight held in an crossed-wrist grip beneath his handgun. The smell of oil, dead fish, and diesel fuel hung heavy in the air.
Clank.
A soft, metallic sound echoed from inside Warehouse 4—a sprawling, dark structure with shattered skylights and rusting corrugated iron walls.
Vance slipped through a broken side door, dropping into a low stance behind a stack of wooden pallets. The interior of the warehouse was pitch black, saved only by the pale moonlight filtering through the broken roof panels.
"Miller!" Vance’s voice echoed through the vast, empty space, booming off the high steel rafters. "It’s over, son! The federal agents have the perimeter completely locked down! Drop your weapon!"
A nervous, high-pitched laugh echoed from the shadow of a row of rusted forklift trucks fifty yards away.
"Stay back, Sheriff!" Miller screamed, his voice trembling with terrified adrenaline. "I didn't have a choice! Thorne told me if I didn't give up her room number, he’d put a bullet in my mother’s head! I had to do it!"
"You had a badge, Miller!" Vance shouted back, moving silently from behind the pallets to a heavy steel pillar, closing the distance between them. "You had a duty to protect people, not sell them out to corrupt slime like Thorne and Collins!"
"They own everything!" Miller sobbed, stepping out into a patch of moonlight. His uniform shirt was rumpled, his face slick with sweat, his service weapon shaking wildly in his grip. "You think you won because you caught Collins? You didn't catch the people at the top, Vance! The syndicate isn't local! It goes all the way to state officials!"
"Then help me bring them down," Vance said calmly, stepping out from behind the pillar with his hands held visible, his gun pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle. "Put the gun down, Miller. Don't throw your life away for men who used you as a disposable shield."
Miller looked at Vance, tears streaming down his young face. For a second, his gun arm lowered slightly. "They’re going to kill me in prison, Sheriff... they’re—"
THWIP!
A silent, high-velocity rifle round shattered the high window of the warehouse. The bullet struck Miller cleanly through the side of the neck.
Miller’s eyes widened in sudden horror. He dropped his gun, clutching his throat as he collapsed onto the oil-stained concrete floor.
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Vance instantly dove behind a steel beam as two more suppressed rounds slammed into the concrete where he had been standing seconds before.
A professional sniper was positioned on the crane outside—a clean-up crew sent by the syndicate to permanently silence Miller before he could talk.
