Chapter 14 - Shadow over Rockland
Thursday arrived under an iron sky that threatened an early autumn squall.
The port town of Rockland smelled of diesel, rotting seaweed, and cold granite. Industrial warehouses lined the harbor spit, their rusted corrugated sides battered by decades of Atlantic gales.
Victor sat behind the wheel of a rented box truck parked three hundred yards down the access road from Atlantic Catch Cold Storage. In the cargo bay behind him, Alessandro and I checked our comms headsets.
I was wearing dark tactical pants, a heavy black windbreaker, and an insulated knit cap that kept my dark hair tucked away. Against my ribs, the Glock felt surprisingly natural now—a reassuring weight rather than an alien instrument of death.
"Visual on Trailer 14," Victor’s voice crackled through the earpiece. "Driver just cleared the weigh pad. White Peterbilt cab, blue refrigerated trailer, commercial registration out of New Brunswick. He’s taking the bypass toward Interstate 95."
"Escorts?" Alessandro asked, checking the red-dot sight on his short-barreled shotgun.
"Two dark Suburbans trailing by fifty yards. Both carrying four men. They aren't trying to hide it—they’re running local private security plates to deter hijackers."
"They're expecting highway raiders," I whispered. "They aren't expecting a municipal stop."
"Ten seconds," Victor confirmed. "Ruiz is in position."
Two miles down the forested access highway, where the road narrowed to a single lane between towering stands of pine, emergency lights suddenly tore through the gloomy fog.
Not state troopers. Not county sheriffs.
Two unmarked white Dodge Chargers belonging to the Federal Department of Transportation Inspection Task Force blocked the narrow bridge crossing the St. George River. Standing in the center of the road, clad in high-visibility tactical vests and holding clipboard manifests, was Special Agent Maria Ruiz—the same federal investigator who had broken Marco’s operation at Pier 12.
The Peterbilt slammed on its air brakes, its massive tires squealing against the wet asphalt, coming to an abrupt halt fifteen feet from Ruiz’s vehicle.
The two escort Suburbans immediately pulled up behind it, their doors opening, but Ruiz’s team didn't hesitate. Six federal agents with tactical rifles stepped out from the treeline on both flanks, weapons leveled.
"Federal inspection!" Ruiz’s voice boomed over an electronic megaphone. "All drivers remain inside your vehicles with your hands visible on the dash! Switch off your ignitions immediately!"
Inside the lead Suburban, a man reached for the center console.
"Don't do it, kid," Victor muttered from our vantage point up the hill.
A sharp crack echoed through the trees as a federal sniper round punched through the Suburban’s front engine block, severing the serpentine belt and venting a thick cloud of white steam into the cold air.
The driver instantly threw his hands out the open window.
Alessandro tapped my shoulder. "Move."
We slipped through the dense pine brush, moving quietly along the high ridge overlooking the road. Through my binoculars, I watched Ruiz approach the rear of the refrigerated trailer with two agents carrying bolt cutters.
The heavy steel padlock snapped with a sharp metallic clink.
Ruiz swung the insulated doors open.
Stacked behind boxes of flash-frozen haddock were three reinforced aluminum airline cases, each secured with digital combination dials. Ruiz didn't need the codes. She brought up an industrial halogen work light and shone it directly onto the shipping manifest pasted to the top crate.
Stamped across the paper was the corporate routing code for Romano Maritime Trust—the very trust Alessandro had established to pay Thomas Vance’s union settlement.
My breath caught in my throat. "Alessandro... look at the paperwork."
Alessandro lowered his binoculars, his jaw tightening into a knot of white-hot fury.
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"Dominic didn't just ship the money," Alessandro hissed, his fingers digging into the bark of the pine tree beside him. "He forged my signature on the bill of lading. He registered the narcotic transport under the Sea Breeze’s corporate tax ID."
The trap wasn't just to cut our throat. Dominic was framing Alessandro for an international drug shipment.
