Chapter 23 - THE ASCENTThe metal rungs of the gantry ladder were slick with rain and freezing spray. Roman hauled his weight upward, hand over hand, ignoring the burning strain in his shoulders and the howling wind that threatened to peel him off the vertical structure like a leaf in a gale.
Fifty feet up, the Newark container yard looked like a grid of rusted toy blocks under the jaundiced glow of the floodlights. Below, he could see Elena moving systematically from cover to cover, her compact Beretta barking twice in quick succession as she pinned Miller and his remaining enforcers behind a wall of shipping crates. Marco’s armored SUV had maneuvered into a blocking position across the access road, its heavy-duty headlights cutting blinding white beams through the sheets of rain.
Roman reached the top platform, vaulting over the safety rail and rolling onto the open catwalk of the crane operator’s cabin.
The sniper—a professional wearing standard mercenary blacks—was kneeling behind a Barrett .50 caliber anti-materiel rifle, frantically trying to clear a jammed bolt carrier.
He didn't hear Roman’s boots hit the metal grating until it was too late.
Roman closed the distance in three long strides, kicking the sniper’s rifle away over the edge of the catwalk where it plummeted fifty feet to shatter against the concrete below. The mercenary spun around, drawing a combat knife from his belt with a vicious slash, aiming straight for Roman’s throat.
Roman ducked beneath the blade, stepping inside the mercenary’s guard, and drove his elbow hard into the man’s sternum. The impact knocked the wind out of the operative with a wet gasp. Roman followed up with a crushing right hook to the jaw, dropping the sniper unconscious onto the wet steel grating.
Roman didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, snatching the secure tactical radio clipped to the mercenary’s tactical vest, and keyed the broadcast frequency.
Miller, Roman’s voice boomed across the container yard's public address system, echoing off the metal walls of a hundred shipping containers. Your sniper is down. Your cargo is seized. And your extraction team isn't coming.
Down below, near Berth 14, Miller froze. He looked up at the towering silhouette of the gantry crane, his face twisted in a mask of impotent rage. He realized in that instant that the game was entirely over. The ambush had failed, the interceptors were compromised, and the federal net was closing in on whatever was left of his crew.
Drop your weapon, Miller! Marco’s voice amplified from the armored SUV below, backed by the solid, unmistakable sound of three estate guards cocking their weapons.
Miller hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting toward his sidearm, before slowly opening his fingers and letting the pistol clatter onto the wet asphalt. He raised his hands high above his head in bitter surrender.
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Roman stood on the catwalk high above, watching the scene unfold below him. The wind whipped his hair across his forehead, but he didn't feel cold. He felt an absolute, unshakeable calm settle over him.
The ghost of the Newark yards had been laid to rest.
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