“The Relief,” frowned River. “Morris’ father ran an agency that offered relief to refugees, except he was trafficking kids from the refugee camps.”
“Bastard,” snarled Tony. The men came back into the room, handing Tony a short list of ships. “Here you go. Three Russian vessels, one Greek that docked at our docks with olives, olive oil, and other foods, and then one from South Africa. She was empty.”
“So, it was one of the Russian ships that went down and got that cargo,” said River. “There was something on that ship that they didn’t want anyone else to find and that the Russians bought and paid for, and were determined to get it, one way or another.”
“It looks that way,” said Tony. “We got some connections with the Russians. Let me do a little digging and I might be able to give you something.”
“We’d appreciate it, Tony but don’t endanger yourself,” said River. He smirked at the younger man, shaking his head.
“Kid, I ain’t worried about shit hurting me. I’ve seen it all and then some. If a few Russians get pissed at me, they’re gonna learn what it means to be an angry, Italian man.” The men chuckled, nodding at Tony. “Now, eat. It might be the last decent meal you get. D.C. has shit for food.”
“See!” said U-Jin. “I told you!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Three years ago…
The night air was thick with a chill that clung to the deck of theRelief, a rusting freighter covered with a fresh coat of paint to make her look sleek. She was slicing through the black waters of the Atlantic Ocean, ready to dock and unload, only so she could turn around and do it again.
The vessel had no country’s flag that claimed the ship or crew. Instead, a British flag was fluttering from its mast, but there were no official markings on its hull—just a battered nameplate and a crew bound by secrecy.
Onboard, tension simmered beneath every whispered conversation, every glance toward the horizon. This wasn’t their first time in making this run. They’d done dozens of times before but something about this time felt different. It felt dangerous.
TheReliefcarried a cargo more dangerous than any storm: illegal weapons, bound for Russian clients eager to profit from chaos. Their destination was the American coast, a place of promise and peril, but tonight, the waters seemed to close in, hiding threats that grew closer with every mile.
Locked away in the containers on her deck and in the ship’s hold, the cargo lay beneath thick tarps and steel crates. Assault rifles with polished stocks, crates of grenades, shoulder-fired missiles, and compact explosives—all contraband, each piece meticulously cataloged by the Russian handlers onboard.
These were not outdated relics, but modern tools of destruction, coveted by those willing to pay a premium for power. The significance of the shipment was unmistakable: it could tip the scales for criminal syndicates, rogue militias, or terrorist cells eager to challenge American stability.
For the Russians, this wasn’t merely business; it was a chance to influence tides far beyond their homeland, to sow discord where order reigned. For one man it was all business. Money. That’s all he wanted, all he needed.
TheReliefdrew closer to its clandestine drop-off point, guided by faint GPS coordinates coded in encrypted messages. The crew, a mix of hardened sailors and cold-eyed operatives, eyed the approaching coastline with a blend of hope and apprehension.
Baltimore was only a few miles north, the target a secluded stretch between it and D.C., chosen for its sparse patrols. Yet, as the ship neared its waypoint, the mood shifted.
The first mate, Volkov, paced the bridge, barking updates. Radar screens flickered with blips—too many to be fishing boats. Tension mounted; every shadow on the water could be an American patrol, every wave a harbinger of disaster.
The worst fears of the crew were realized as spotlights breached the horizon, sweeping in wide arcs across the waves. Customs patrol boats, unmistakable in their blue-and-white livery, moved with precision and purpose.
The Russians’ contact in the States sent frantic updates: docking was now impossible. The patrols had been tipped off—whether by a rival or a slip in the Russians' own communications, no one knew. Docking plans unraveled.
“They’re circling. We can’t get close,” Volkov muttered, voice edged with dread.
The Americans would seize the ship, confiscate the cargo, and the Russians would be left empty-handed and incarcerated. This was not something they could allow. In spite of their American contact telling them to have patience and wait until she could get the patrols pulled back, the captain made a decision.
“Open the ballasts. Get the lifeboats ready and sink the ship,” he said calmly.
“But sir, the cargo.”
“We’ll be back for the cargo. Tonight, we walk away with our lives.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I actually liked Tony,” said River. “I hope Priscilla will give him a chance. He knew her father for a long time and I think they shared more secrets than he let on.”
“If I’ve learned anything being married to your mother,” smirked Patrick, “it’s don’t push a woman to make any decisions. Let her figure it out for herself. She’ll come around. She’s been blindsided at every turn and this has to be eating her alive.”
“I know,” nodded River. “I just wouldn’t want her to miss out on the chance to know him. He seems a good guy.”
