The Ambush at Pier 4

​POV: Malia

​The noise inside the abandoned gatehouse was a deafening mix of rain drumming against the tin roof and the static-laced hum of the tactical comms console.

​From my position behind the reinforced glass window, I had a clear view of the lower staging area of Pier 4. Down on the asphalt, Jarrah’s four-man tactical team was moving like shadows between the towering stacks of shipping containers, sweeping toward the central berth where the armored transport truck was parked.

​"Alpha team in position," Jarrah’s low voice crackled over the radio, heavy with static. "Moving to breach the primary cargo trailer. Malia, how does the perimeter look from the tower?"

​I swept my night-vision binoculars across the high catwalks running along the crane structures. "All clear on the upper rail, Jarrah. But something feels wrong. The guards near the vessel... they aren't loading the ship anymore. They're just standing there."

​"Repeating, Malia, say again: static is rising"

​"Jarrah, wait!" I leaned closer to the glass, my stomach plunging into a cold sea of dread.

​Under the sodium lights of the pier, I saw a subtle movement high up on the crane rig directly above Jarrah's position. A flash of dull metal. A tripod leg being deployed on an elevated gantry.

​"It's a trap!" I screamed into the mic, abandoning all radio protocol. "Jarrah, fall back! They have high-caliber emplacements on the crane gantries! It's an ambush!"

​Before my voice even faded from the speaker, the night erupted into pure, violent chaos.

​A blinding flare shot into the sky, lighting up the entire harbor in a harsh, ghostly white glow. Instantly, heavy automatic fire shattered the quiet. Not standard rifles; these were heavy fifty-caliber mounted guns, pounding out a deafening THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD that shook the foundation of the gatehouse beneath my feet.

​Down below, the asphalt violently disintegrated into flying chunks of rock and dust where Jarrah’s team had been standing two seconds prior.

​"Suppressing fire! Move! Move to the container line!" I heard Jarrah roaring over the comms, punctuated by the horrific sound of metal being shredded and men screaming in pain.

​Through the scope, I saw them. They were completely pinned down.

​Jarrah and two surviving members of his strike team were squeezed into a narrow six-foot alley between two massive steel shipping containers. On both sides, heavy machine guns mounted on the elevated crane gantries were chewing through the steel walls of the containers, pouring a continuous stream of armor-piercing rounds straight into their cover. Sparks flew like fireworks. The containers were crumpling like soda cans under the sheer volume of lead.

​They were in a kill box. No angle to return fire. No room to advance. Within two minutes, the heavy rounds would punch completely through the container steel and turn Jarrah and his men into ash.

​"Comms failing... heavy fire... team members down..." Jarrah’s voice was fading fast through the static, heavy with ragged breathing. "Malia... stay back... do not leave the gatehouse... clear the area... that's an order"

​The radio burst into a high-pitched screech and went dead.

​"Jarrah!" I screamed into the mic. "Jarrah, answer me!"

​Only static answered.

​Down on the pier, the muzzle flashes from the crane gantries were unrelenting, lighting up the rain like lightning strikes. I saw Jarrah lean out from behind the shredded metal edge of a container, firing three rapid shots upward with his sidearm, but his bullets bounced uselessly off the armored gun-shield of the heavy turret above him. He was forced back instantly as a hail of fifty-caliber rounds tore up the ground at his feet.

​My chest buckled. I couldn't breathe. My heart felt like it was going to burst through my ribs.

​I watched Callan die from a distance. The thought burned through my mind with the force of a branding iron. I sat in a room and waited for the phone call that broke my life into pieces. I am NOT sitting in this room again.

​I threw off the headset, grabbed my tactical shotgun from the wall rack, and slammed the gatehouse door open into the roaring storm.

​I sprinted down the asphalt ramp toward the gatehouse yard. Parked under the rusted awning was the syndicate’s heavy support vehicle: a six-ton, matte-black armored transport truck with a reinforced V-hull, steel mesh over the windshield, and heavy iron plow bars bolted to the front bumper.

​I leaped into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The massive diesel engine roared to life with a mechanical snarl that vibrated straight up through my spine.

​I slammed my foot onto the clutch, shoved the heavy gear stick into first, and locked my eyes on the heavy iron chain-link gates blocking the entrance to Pier 4.

​"Hold on, Jarrah," I snarled through clenched teeth, tears blurring the edges of my vision as I slammed my foot flat against the accelerator.

​The massive truck surged forward, tires screaming against the wet asphalt. The speed gauge climbed thirty, forty, fifty miles per hour. The heavy iron gates grew huge in my windshield.

​CRASH!

​The impact rattled my teeth in my skull. The iron gates exploded inward, torn from their concrete pillars in a shower of sparks and snapping steel cables. I didn't slow down. I slammed the shifter into third, driving the massive iron plow straight down the main lane of the pier.

​Guards scattered like leaves in a hurricane as the six-ton beast roared into the light. Bullets began hammering against the armored windshield, spider-webbing the reinforced glass, but the heavy steel plate held.

​Up ahead, I saw the kill box: the narrow alley between the two melting shipping containers where Jarrah was trapped.

​The heavy turret on the gantry saw me coming and swung its barrel down, heavy rounds suddenly slamming into the hood of my truck like sledgehammers. The engine smoked, the metal front buckling, but the momentum of six tons of roaring steel was unstoppable.

​"GET IN!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, hauling on the steering wheel and violently pulling the handbrake.

​The heavy truck swung sideways, executing a brutal, sliding wall-of-steel maneuver that slammed the heavily armored side of the vehicle directly across the open mouth of the container alley, completely cutting off the line of sight from the overhead heavy turrets.

​The fifty-caliber rounds began pounding uselessly against the thick side armor of the truck's cargo bed with a deafening CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG, creating a temporary shield of impenetrable steel for the trapped men.

​I threw open the passenger door, reaching out into the rain and smoke with one hand while holding my shotgun ready in the other.

​Jarrah was there instantly. His tactical vest was torn, blood streaming from a deep graze on his temple, his eyes wide with absolute, disbelieving shock as he stared at me through the cab door.

​"Are you insane?!" he roared over the sound of thundering gunfire.

​"Get your ass in this truck, or I'm running you over myself!" I yelled back, grabbing his tactical harness and hauling with everything I had.

​He pulled himself up into the cab, dragging his wounded operative behind him into the narrow footwell. Before the door even slammed shut, Jarrah reached across the console, his large, blood-stained hand slamming over mine on the gear shift.

​He didn't yell at me for disobeying orders. He didn't lecture me.

​He looked at me with a fierce, terrified, wildly passionate heat that burned brighter than the fires starting to spread across the dock. His hand squeezed mine so hard I could feel his pulse hammering in his palm.

​"Drive!" he roared.

​I slammed my foot back down on the pedal, and the armored truck lurched forward into the inferno.