The imposing portico cranes along Dodge Island rose like giant iron sentries against the horizon. The smell of sea salt, hot diesel exhaust gases and humid tropical asphalt floated in the afternoon air.
Pier four was an isolated deep-water cargo terminal, located at the southeast end of the port, flanked by imposing stacks of forty-foot multicolored maritime containers and protected by a twelve-foot-high high-security perimeter fence.
Tied up against the concrete bulkhead, vibrating with the low and underground buzz of the auxiliary diesel generators, was the **M/V *Sovereign Tide***, a eight hundred-foot-long maritime container ship, without a flag, registered in the name of a Panamanian corporate trust.
On the ship’s main deck, thirty-two private paramilitary mercenaries of **Aegis-Apex Tactical**, dressed in maritime assault bulletproof vests, dark gray tactical uniforms and armed with automatic carbines with silencer, remained stationed along the footbridges, bridge wings and container cranes.
*SKRRRRRR-THUD. *
A single unbadled black Chevrolet Suburban traversed the main safety gate, its heavy tires slowly crackling on the tracks before stopping fifty feet from the ship’s main boarding ramp.
The engine stopped.
The entrance doors opened.
Special Agent Marcus Vance stepped out of the driver’s side, wearing a dark tactical windbreaker jacket over his federal bulletproof vest, keeping his hands visible and calmly leaning on his belt.
He surrounded the vehicle and opened the passenger’s back door.
I went down to the concrete dock.
He wore a dark grey premama blazer over a black silk robe, dress pants and flat leather boots. The hair was collected in an elegant and severe ponytail; my makeup was impeccable; and my gaze reflected an unwavering, diamond-hard determination.
