Then a metal door bangs somewhere ahead of us, quick and hard, and someone starts running.
“Left side,” Conall says, already moving.
I cut right instead, using the shed corner for cover while two of my men push toward the sound, and a shadow breaks across the lane between the second and third fuel buildings. He’s fast, head down, carrying something long in both hands, and the floodlight catches the barrel for half a second.
“Down,” I snap.
The first shot cracks across the yard and takes sparks off corrugated steel where my men were a heartbeat earlier, then all restraint burns off and the lane opens up with noise, boots scraping, metal ringing, short, controlled bursts from my side and wild return fire from theirs.
Conall drops to a knee at the crate stack and fires twice, forcing the runner behind an oil drum cluster. “Three at least,” he calls. “One on the roofline.”
I track up on instinct and catch movement above the catwalk access, a head and shoulder shape sliding behind a rusted vent housing. He’s set to pin the lane while the others pull out by water.
“Catwalk team?” I ask into comms.
A whisper comes back in my ear, breathless but steady. “Visual on roof shooter. Waiting.”
“Take him.”
The shot from above is clean and immediate, and the roofline figure jerks sideways and drops out of sight behind the vent box.At ground level, someone curses and starts firing blindly toward the stairs, and that gives away the second man’s position near the chain fence.
I move.
Gravel shifts under my boots as I cut across the lane, staying low, shoulder brushing cold steel, and the pain in my side catches once when I pivot around the shed corner. I ignore it and keep going. The fence gunman pops up to relocate, and I put one round through his thigh before he can clear the post. He drops hard, weapon skidding under the fence with a clatter.
“Alive,” one of my men calls.
“Keep him that way,” I reply. “I want him talking.”
A second attacker bolts from behind the drums toward the waterline with a satchel in one hand, and the shape of that bag puts a bad taste in my mouth. Charges, tools, or cash for a pickup. None of it belongs on my dock.
“Stop him,” Conall shouts.
The man reaches the low service ramp and turns to fire back, muzzle flash strobing across wet concrete, and I feel the old rhythm settle into place, sight picture, breath, pressure. I fire once and catch him high in the shoulder. He spins, slams against the rail, and goes down on the ramp with the satchel trapped under him.
The low boat beyond the third shed revs suddenly, engine coughing before it catches, and the black shape starts to swing away from the pilings.
“Boat’s moving,” the catwalk voice says in my ear.
“Disable it.”
Gunfire rips from above, sharper angle this time, and sparks jump off the outboard housing. The boat swerves, overcorrects, clips a piling, and stalls with a grinding hit that throws one man sideways. He tries to restart, but one of my men reaches the edge and puts rounds into the console. The engine dies for good.
For a few seconds the whole lane is noise and motion, men shouting positions, one attacker crying out from the fence, Conall kicking a dropped rifle away, another of mine dragging the wounded runner clear of the open strip near the ramp. Then it starts to settle, the way these things always do, in pieces.
“Clear left.”
“Roofline secure.”
“Boat contained.”
“Two down, two breathing.”
I scan the shadows and wait another count anyway, listening for the second movement, the hidden shooter, the late surprise. All I get is water slapping concrete and a loose sheet of metal tapping somewhere in the wind.
Conall comes up beside me, breathing hard but controlled. “One of ours took a graze on the forearm. Nothing else.”
I nod and step toward the man on the ramp. He’s conscious, face pale under dock grime, shoulder bleeding through a dark jacket, one hand clamped over the wound while he stares at me like he knows exactly whose ground he landed on.