The storm had swallowed everything in gray. Waves hammered the pilings below. Wind tore through the pier, driving rain sideways in sheets.
Then—light.
A flicker through the fog, faint and ghostly at first, then brighter. Headlights.
His chest went tight.
“Viv,” he called.
She appeared beside him, rifle in hand, rain dripping from her hair, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
“They’re here.”
He nodded toward the glow cutting through the storm. Two sets of headlights became three. Engines growled, low and deliberate. Tires crunched against wet asphalt. Whoever they were, they weren’t amateurs.
Viv leaned closer, steadying the rifle on the sill; she sighted down the barrel.
The convoy reached the edge of the dock. Two trucks in front, another behind. Headlights glared white against the rain-slick metal, turning the pier into a stage of shadows and glare.
Blake’s fingers tightened on the rifle. “Let’s see who gets out first.”
The first truck door swung open. Figures spilled into the storm—armed, tactical, synchronized.
Blake’s pulse kicked up. The way they moved—fluid, trained—wasn’t merc work. This was organized. Precise.
Viv drew in a breath beside him. “Their formation’s paramilitary.”
He didn’t need to be told. He could read it in their spacing, their angles, the way they covered each other automatically. Whoever sent them, this wasn’t a cleanup crew. This was an execution squad.
The men fanned out along the pier, using crates and barriers for cover. One raised a gloved hand—signal. Then, in perfect unison, they leveled their rifles at the ship.
“Down,” Blake hissed, pulling Viv behind the console just as the first shots tore through the fog. Metal sparked and screamed above their heads.
“They know we’re here,” she said, breath sharp against his shoulder.
“Good,” Blake muttered grimly, checking his mag. “Saves introductions.”
He risked a glance through the window—and froze.
Another engine, deeper, slower, different. A black shape emerged through the haze—sleeker, civilian, out of place among the troop trucks. It pulled to a stop behind the convoy, headlights cutting out.
For a long, suspended moment, the pier went still.
Then the driver’s door opened.
A man stepped into the storm. Long coat. Hat pulled low. The kind of calm that didn’t come from ignorance—but authority.
Blake’s gut went cold. He didn’t need to see the face. He knew the way that man moved. Controlled. Calculated.
Viv’s breath caught beside him. “Maddox,” she whispered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maddox stood on the dock,hair plastered to his temples, coat whipping in the wind like a banner. He shouted something Vivian couldn’t hear and jabbed a hand toward the men on the pier. They hesitated, weapons dipping a fraction.
Vivian’s throat closed around a hundred unsaid things. “He came,” she breathed.
Blake didn’t look away from the scene below. “Or they dragged him along for the show.”
