Engaging his Enemy (Shattered SEALs #4) - Amy Gamet Page 0,31
a prime example of law enforcement history that was about to go down.
A voice came over a speaker on the command console. “We can see the ship.”
The DEA agent in charge flipped a switch. “Give me a visual.” A screen lit up, a containership appearing on the screen. It looked like it could carry a dozen shipping containers, far fewer than some of the monstrous boats at the port that could carry thousands. But in terms of drugs, the volume was enormous—more than enough to damn DeRegina forever.
He watched as the ship made its way down the channel, finally approaching its assigned berth, and said a silent prayer for the men and women about to engage in this confrontation. The command center chirped with status updates from the agents in the field, while Razorback listened to his own team through an earpiece comm set.
“We’ve got three men visible on the ship’s bridge,” said Trace.
Razorback turned on his mic. “What are you seeing at the warehouse, Sloan?”
“Another truckload of fifty-gallon drums. Six workers unloading it now.”
“Any sign of DeRegina?” asked Razorback.
“Negative.”
Razorback frowned. In his dreams of this day, DeRegina was here in person, foiled and distraught, an image Razorback longed to add to his memories.
“Wait,” said Sloan. “Black sedan approaching the warehouse.”
Razorback stared at the ship on the display, its hull slowly creeping by their camera as he waited for Sloan’s next update.
“It’s him.”
“Get a camera on him,” barked Razorback. “Moto, you ready?”
“Facial-recognition program running,” said Moto.
Sloan swore. “The telephoto lens doesn’t get me close enough.”
“Send me what you’ve got,” said Moto. “Maybe I can work with it.”
Adrenaline had Razorback poised to take on a tango with his own bare hands, but he reined himself in as he waited for Moto to do his magic, time stretching out with an interminable fluidity.
The ship stopped moving just as Moto’s voice came over the comm set. “It’s him. Ninety-nine percent confidence interval.”
“Hot damn,” said Razorback. “Agent Spaulding,” he said, getting the older DEA commander’s attention, “DeRegina is at the warehouse.”
Spaulding grinned. “He’s going to have a front-row seat to his own demise, then, isn’t he?” Razorback only wished that was actually true. The warehouse was close to where the ship had docked, but it wasn’t visible from DeRegina’s vantage point.
Razorback turned his attention back to the console. Within minutes, the crew of the ship had disembarked and were arrested, and federal agents boarded the ship. “Razorback, DeRegina and his men are headed your way,” said Sloan, just as one of the feds shared the same information through the command center speaker.
“I’m going out there,” said Razorback. He wanted to see this with his own eyes.
Spaulding nodded. “Just stay back.”
He went outside, the ship a mere hundred yards away from where he stood. A black sedan could be seen in the distance, heading for the docks, and Razorback damn near smiled. But it wasn’t over yet, and he forced himself to be patient.
The sedan approached the agents and several people got out, including a silver-haired man he knew must be DeRegina. A large crane beside the ship roared to life, its arm swinging over the first container.
Sloan’s voice came over the comm set. “The agents are going into the warehouse. Time to find out what’s inside all those drums. You know, this is the mission we’ve had the least to do with, but I still feel prouder than shit. I think this is the most important one.”
DEA agents had come out of their positions and were gathering close to the ship. “I’m right there with you, Sloan,” said Razorback. The massive crane grabbed on to the container, the operator lifting it up and slowly turning so the container was over the pavement. Trace caught Razorback’s eye, standing with the DEA agents and smiling so wide Razorback could see it from here.
Razorback smiled.
“Drum roll, please…” Sloan said in his ear, making the sound of actual drums. “They’re prying open the first fifty-gallon drum. What will it be? Fifty years to life or a brand new car?”
Razorback laughed. The first shipping container hit the ground with a low thud, and the DEA agents approached it, guns drawn. Trace must have ingratiated himself with the group, because he stood just behind them. DeRegina was still there, gesturing wildly from the sidelines, not joining the agents as they lifted the latches and turned the handles to open the back of the container.
“Holy fuck!” yelled Sloan, just as a distant blast echoed through the port. “Explosives! There are explosives