The Little Girl With The Purple Walker And The Secret Note
CHAPTER 5: THE WHARF PURSUIT
The massive container ship Atlantic Pioneer was already in motion.
Its towering black steel hull, rising seventy feet above the murky waters of the Savannah River, began to pull away from the concrete wharf as two powerful harbor tugboats leaned into its bow to guide it into the main navigation channel. Thick plumes of gray diesel exhaust billowed from the ship’s funnel, and the enormous bronze propeller began to churn the river into a boiling froth of white water.
Standing on the elevated concrete loading platform near the ship’s gangway, watching the departure through binoculars, was Julian Mercer.
The fifty-four-year-old Port Authority Chairman wore an expensive navy cashmere trench coat over a tailored suit, surrounded by four private security contractors carrying automatic submachine guns. A black Mercedes Maybach sedan sat idling beside him on the wharf, ready to take him to the airport the moment the ship cleared the channel.
“Tank! Bear!” Grant roared, mounting his Fat Boy and kicking the starter. “Get Rebecca into the transport van and call the United States Coast Guard Sector Charleston! Tell them an armed treason flight is underway on the Savannah River! The rest of the pack, on my wheel! We take the wharf!”
Twelve heavy Harley-Davidsons roared into life with an earth-shaking, synchronized roar that rattled the corrugated steel warehouses along the waterfront.
Grant led the pack down the wide, concrete container wharf at seventy miles an hour, his knobby rear tire finding traction on the slick, crane-tracked tarmac. The river wind whipped his beard across his collar, his slate-gray eyes locked onto the black Maybach and the gangway platform.
Seeing the roaring phalanx of motorcycles charging down the wharf, Mercer panicked.
“Shoot them! Block the pier!” Mercer shrieked at his contractors.
The four guards opened fire with automatic submachine guns, their nine-millimeter rounds ricocheting off the concrete deck and pinging off the heavy steel crane legs.
Grant didn’t flinch. In combat convoy operations, when approaching an armed choke point, you used speed, mass, and tactical dispersion.
“Split formation!” Grant commanded through his intercom.
The twelve motorcycles divided into two six-bike wedges, flanking the gangway platform from both sides. Bear and Hawk fired heavy non-lethal kinetic rounds that shattered the windshield of the Mercedes Maybach, while Grant charged directly down the center line, slamming his heavy steel engine guard into the side of the gangway stairs, collapsing the aluminum scaffolding and disarming the lead two gunmen in a shower of sparks and tumbling weapons!
The remaining two guards broke into a panicked run, dropping their weapons on the concrete and raising their hands into the air.
Julian Mercer spun around, his expensive coat flapping in the river wind, his manicured face twisted in feral, cornered desperation.
He drew a small black automatic pistol from his coat pocket, firing two wild shots toward Grant that ricocheted harmlessly off the Fat Boy’s chrome headlight bucket.
Realizing his escape vehicle was disabled and his mercenaries routed, Mercer scrambled toward the massive steel ladder of Container Crane Number Seven—a two-hundred-foot-tall gantry crane whose steel boom extended seventy feet over the deck of the moving container ship!
Mercer climbed the vertical steel maintenance ladder with frantic, desperate speed, his polished dress shoes slipping on the wet rungs as he scrambled toward the elevated operator’s catwalk sixty feet above the water!
Grant brought his motorcycle to a sliding halt at the base of the crane.
He dismounted, stripped off his heavy riding gloves, and looked up at the fleeing tycoon.
Behind him, Tank pulled up on his Road Glide, breathing hard. “Grant! Coast Guard cutters are five miles downriver, but Mercer is reaching the crane operator’s cabin! If he accesses the master controls, he can drop a twenty-ton container spreader directly onto the wharf and crush us all!”
“He won’t touch those controls,” Grant growled, his voice deadly quiet.
Grant grabbed a thirty-foot braided nylon climbing line with a heavy forged carabiner from his saddlebag, stepped onto the steel ladder, and began ascending the crane tower with the swift, effortless agility of a Marine rigger.
The wind whipping off the Savannah River was cold and brackish, churning the wake of the departing freighter into rolling swells that splashed against the concrete wharf pilings. The deafening vibration of the ship’s massive turbocharged marine engines shook the entire terminal, rattling the steel gantry legs and vibrating through Grant’s boots.
Preacher and Hawk pulled alongside the lead gantry crane, firing a high-tensile steel grappling line across the ship’s stern mooring bollard, tying off the trailing nylon recovery strap to the crane’s heavy concrete anchor stanchion. The strain on the line screamed like a guitar string, creating a massive dragging friction that forced the harbor tugs to cut their throttles to avoid snapping their tow hawsers.
“We bought you ninety seconds, Grant!” Preacher roared through the intercom, his shotgun held high. “Mercer is at the operator’s cabin sixty feet up! Take the tower!”
Grant threw his motorcycle into a hard counter-steer, tires smoking against the damp concrete wharf as he cut through the spray of the ship’s bow thrusters. The air vibrated with the mechanical scream of the turning winches and the groaning steel of the container cranes.
Behind him, Bear and Red laid down a secondary wall of non-lethal suppressive fire along the gangway approach, ensuring that no armed security personnel could regroup to flank the crane base. Every brother moved with seasoned military precision, locking down the wharf sectors with the disciplined coordination of combat veterans who refused to leave a single flank exposed.
