Chapter 19 - THE INTERVENTION
A deafening crack echoed from the top of the cargo hold companionway—not the suppressed whisper of Alexis’s tactical pistol, but the booming, unbridled roar of an M9 9mm service pistol fired inside an enclosed steel space.
The round struck Vancev in the right shoulder, shattering the collarbone and sending the silver detonator spinning across the bloody floorboards.
Vancev screamed in agony, stumbling backward and releasing his human shield.
Alexis capitalized instantly. She surged forward, kicked the fallen detonator twenty yards away under a massive hydraulic generator, and drove her boot into Vancev’s solar plexus, pinning the wounded operative to the deck with her weapon pressed against his temple.
She glanced toward the stairs.
Standing on the metal catwalk, bleeding from a superficial shrapnel cut across his forehead and holding his smoking service pistol with both hands, was Gunnery Sergeant Vance. Behind him stood the young Marine he had rescued from the dock, supporting his concussed comrade.
"I told you to hold the perimeter, Gunny," Alexis said, not moving her eyes from Vancev.
Vance lowered his pistol, breathing hard, his face streaked with soot and harbor salt. A crooked, defiant smile spread across his bruised features.
"With all due respect, Captain... Marines don't leave their commanders unsupported in a firefight."
Alexis permitted herself a single, brief nod of respect toward the Sergeant. "Secure the technicians. Tie them to the railing with their own suit ties."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Vance barked, descending the stairs and directing his Marine to take charge of the terrified scientists.
Alexis pressed the beacon activator on her wrist console. The encrypted signal flashed green, transmitting the vessel’s exact coordinates and the radioactive signature confirmation directly to Commander Cross’s command vehicle outside the gates.
Within ninety seconds, the harbor rattled with the thunderous roar of twin MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters swooping in low over the water, their spotlight beams flooding the deck of the *Caspian Glory* through the open hatches. Heavily armed JSOC operators in full tactical gear began fast-roping down onto the cargo decks, securing the perimeter with mechanical, practiced efficiency.
Cross himself was among the first down the ladder into Hold 3, his sidearm holstered, his eyes wide as he assessed the scene: the captured technicians, the neutralized mercenaries, the wounded Vancev, and the massive titanium crate sitting intact in the center of the bay.
"Status on the package?" Cross demanded, rushing toward the diagnostic console.
"Tamper circuits bypassed," Alexis reported calmly, stepping away from Vancev as two federal operators slammed flex-cuffs onto the terrorist financier. "The core is safe. But you need to get the NEST radiological team in here within ten minutes to secure the transport seals."
Cross let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for forty-eight hours. He turned to Alexis, his expression a mix of awe and profound relief.
"You pulled it off, Alexis," he breathed. "A clean sweep. No civilian casualties. The entire cell broken in a single night."
"Not entirely clean," Alexis said, looking over at the two dead CBP officers lying near the bulkhead. "And Vancev was singing before we took him down. He said something that doesn't make sense."
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Cross frowned, his celebratory mood dimming instantly. "What did he say?"
"He said Tariq knew I would come."
