Chapter 7 - The Confrontation at the PortZ
The boardroom was frozen in absolute terror. The executives stared at the giant smart-screen as Dominic Thorne slowly took a sip of his scotch, entirely unfazed by the fact that federal agents and corporate directors were witnessing his transmission.
"Dominic Thorne," I said, stepping directly in front of the camera lens mounted beneath the monitor. "Your freighter isn't leaving Berth 42. The International Maritime Organization has flagged The Cynthia as a pirated hull. If she unties from the dock, the United States Navy and the Coast Guard will seize her the moment she crosses the three-mile limit."
Thorne let out a dry, chilling chuckle that sent shivers down the spines of the men behind me.
"You really are your mother’s daughter," Thorne said smoothly. "Eleanor had that exact same arrogant belief in the absolute power of institutions. But you see, Julian, rules only apply to people who operate inside the system. The Cynthia doesn't need to reach international waters to accomplish its purpose. The hardware on that ship is already online. We are transferring the final cryptographic ledger right now."
Maya tapped my arm frantically, showing me her laptop screen. A massive, high-bandwidth data transmission was currently pinging from the corporate tower’s private sub-station directly toward the South Pier docks.
"He's siphoning Vance Enterprises' entire financial reserve into his private blockchain network," Maya whispered in horror. "Eighty million dollars of operational liquidity is being drained through our own fiber-optic cables!"
"You thought you could bankrupt me, little girl?" Thorne said through the screen, his expression turning cold, predatory, and ruthless. "I am draining your family’s legacy down to the last penny. And once the transfer completes in twenty minutes, Berth 42 will experience a catastrophic industrial accident. A fire that will make your father’s little kitchen blaze look like a birthday candle. Along with The Cynthia, the entire port authority terminal—and every piece of physical evidence linking me to Vance Logistics—will turn to ash."
"Thorne, listen to me—" Ortiz stepped into frame, flashing her federal badge. "This is Detective Ortiz. Every law enforcement agency in this state is mobilizing on your position!"
"Then they had better hurry, Detective," Thorne replied with a cruel smirk. "Because in twenty minutes, I will be forty thousand feet in the air, and you will be sifting through the wreckage of another Vance tragedy."
The screen snapped to black.
"Maya, can you sever the fiber-optic uplink from here?" I asked urgently, my mind racing through algorithmic possibilities.
"No!" Maya cried, tapping furiously. "He’s using a military-grade hardline bridge physically connected to the server junction at Berth 42! The kill-switch has to be manually engaged at the terminal terminal switchboard at the docks!"
"Ortiz, we're going to the port," I said, grabbing my overcoat.
"Julian, Thorne has a private army at Berth 42," Ortiz warned, drawing her weapon and checking the clip. "We don't have time to wait for the federal strike team. It’s just us and whatever units can meet us on site."
"Then we go with what we have," I said, my voice hardening. "My mother died protecting those ledgers. I am not letting Dominic Thorne turn her sacrifice into his getaway fund."
Ten minutes later, Ortiz's unmarked cruiser, sirens screaming against the howling storm, tore through the industrial gates of the Carlyle Shipping Yard on the South Pier.
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Rain lashed against the windshield in violent sheets. The pier was a sprawling maze of towering, multi-colored shipping containers stacked five high, casting long, menacing shadows under the sodium floodlights. Ahead of us, the massive, rust-streaked hull of The Cynthia loomed over the black water of Lake Michigan, thick ropes straining against the storm surge.
As our cruiser skidded to a halt near the main terminal control building, a hail of automatic gunfire shattered the vehicle’s windshield.
