CHAPTER 1 — Terminal Forty-Seven

  Rain threaded across the sodium lights of Portland's harbor, thin needles cutting through the mist that hung over Terminal Forty-Seven. Officer Talon Rowe eased his patrol cruiser to a stop beside a stack of empty containers. Dispatch chatter faded into the background hiss of the marine bands.

  He watched the terminal lights for a full minute before stepping out.

  Three figures were visible near the far end of the pier, floodlights glinting off the metal cases being off-loaded from an unmarked hauler. They moved with practiced rhythm, not the hurried shuffle of dockhands.

  Rowe keyed his mic. “Dispatch, eighty-five.”

  “Go ahead, eighty-five.”

  “Unit eighty-five out at Terminal Forty-Seven. Got multiple subjects off-loading freight after hours. No manifest showing for tonight’s schedule.”

  “Clear, eighty-five. Do you need an assist?”

  “Negative for now. I’ll check it out. Have an assist unit start rolling my way, just in case.”

  “Copy that, eighty-five. Unit forty-two en route from Riverfront.”

  Rowe shut the door softly, rain tapping the cruiser roof. He started forward, pace easy and unhurried, letting the sound of the water mask his approach. He counted seven people, three near the hauler and four working the lift rig. One stood apart from the others, eyes on a handheld device, its screen pulsing faintly in the dark.

  He paused behind a line of barrels, watching. The containers were marked for medical research, but the serial tags were half-filed off. Wrong paint codes. Wrong paperwork.

  He keyed the mic again. “Dispatch, eighty-five. Confirm assist continues. I’ve got seven subjects, possible unauthorized shipment. I will advise.”

  “Clear, eighty-five. Dispatch monitoring. Unit forty-two three minutes out.”

  He watched another minute. When one of the workers glanced toward the dark, Rowe stepped out into the open, voice loud enough to carry.

  “Evening, fellas.” He kept it friendly, posture neutral. “Port Police. What’s going on out here tonight?”

  The nearest man turned, a clean-jacketed type with authority written in his stance. “Routine off-load,” he said easily. “Paperwork is filed.”

  “Then you will not mind showing it to me,” Rowe said.

  “Left it in the office.” The man smiled thinly. “You can check with them.”

  Rowe kept his tone calm. “Strange time for a delivery. We got reports of unusual activity, and nobody logged anything for this sector tonight. You folks moving medical freight?”

  “Something like that,” the man said. “Name’s Adryn Tharion. We are subcontracted under a private research grant.”

  Rowe noted the name. Old money. Wrong place.

  Before he could press further, another voice came from the side, a leaner man with a restless edge. Rynel Deythar. “You have a lot of questions for a night shift.”

  Rowe kept his tone level. “Questions make the world go around.”

  Rynel tilted his head. “Careful, officer. Sometimes the answers do not like being found.”

  The grin did not reach his eyes. Rowe saw the posture change, the subtle angles in the others, classic pre-assault cues.

  He shifted his stance, right hand loose near his belt, voice steady. “Easy. Let’s keep it right here.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The clean-jacketed man lifted a hand, calm on the surface. “No one is hiding anything, Officer. You can come by the admin office in the morning and I will print whatever you need.”

  “That’s not how this works,” Rowe said. “It opens now, or I shut you down until port control clears your credentials.”

  The handheld man looked to him for a cue. The workers froze. The restless one took a slow step forward, shoulders tightening.

  Rowe stayed open-framed, left side forward, hands visible. “Last warning. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The smaller man moved first with a hard shove. Rowe caught the motion, deflected with his forearm, and drew his baton in one smooth sweep. The steel locked with a sharp click.

  “Back up,” he ordered. “Hands where I can see them.”

  The man ignored him and came on. Rowe struck once, a controlled rib shot. Solid contact. The man grunted, blinked, and reset as if nothing had happened.

  Rowe shifted, drew the pepper spray with his left hand, and hit him full in the face. The stream caught eyes and mouth. The man reeled, coughing and wiping at his skin.

  “Stop resisting,” Rowe said, baton high.

  The man lifted his head through the burn. His breathing turned rough, but his expression had changed. Not pain. Rage. The overhead lamps flickered once, and the air around him took on a low vibration that Rowe could feel more than hear.

  The spray was only provoking him.

  Rowe shifted the baton to his left hand, drew the taser with his right, and leveled it. “Stop. Now.”

  The man took another step.

  Rowe fired. The probes struck center mass and sparked. The taser whined, then pitched wrong. A sting snapped through the grip into Rowe’s hand, sharp enough to make his fingers clench. Across from him, the man barely flinched. Veins along his neck pulsed with a dull internal light, as if the current had gone into him and kept going.

  Rowe dropped the taser, shook out his hand, baton steady again in his left. He keyed his shoulder mic without taking his eyes off the threat.

  “Eighty-five, need assist now. South annex, Terminal Forty-Seven. Actively engaged with multiple subjects. Request immediate backup.”

  Static filled the line. No reply.

  He moved to keep distance, parried a wild swing, and struck again. The crack echoed off the metal bay walls. It did not slow the man.

  A calm voice slid through the hiss in his earpiece. “Eighty-five, ten sixty-four.”

  He had no breath or angle to answer. The mic brushed his collar as he pivoted, keying open once with the sound of air pulling through his teeth.

  Thirty seconds dragged. The dispatcher called again, calm and steady. “Eighty-five, ten sixty-four.”

  Boots scraped concrete. Chains skittered. The workers backed away from the light pooling under the crane. The clean-jacketed man barked an order toward the stacks. The handheld man turned, screen pulsing faster. The restless one came on, grinning through tears and chemical burn, closing fast.

  Rowe set his feet and met him. Block. Strike. Drive. He stayed in command voice between hits. “Stop now. Get on the ground. Do it.”

  The man crashed into him, shoulder low, and they hit the floor hard. Grit bit into Rowe’s cheek. He rolled, got a knee under him, and brought the baton across the forearm to break contact. It worked for a second, then a boot caught his side and dropped him again. Pain spiked across his ribs, deep and sharp, like something tearing under the vest.

  “Rynel.” Cael’s voice cut through the clash, urgent but unsure. “That is enough. He is finished.”

  The other man did not slow.

  “Adryn, tell him.”

  “Let him have his fun,” Adryn said, tone smooth and detached. “He wanted to see what one of them could take.”

  Cael hesitated, fists tightening at his sides. “He is just human.”

  “Exactly,” Adryn replied.

  The word landed like a dismissal. Cael took a half step forward, then stopped as Rynel struck again, the sound wet and final.

  His breath came ragged and hot with copper. The world narrowed to motion and noise. Every inhale burned.

  A voice cut through the noise, something about a crate, then vanished again. The world had shrunk to light and movement and the steady call of a voice on the radio that would not stop.

  “Eighty-five, ten sixty-four.”

  The concrete under him began to vibrate, not from footsteps but from something deeper. A tone built in the walls and rose until his teeth buzzed. The handheld man shouted. The clean-jacketed one spun and pointed toward the stacks. The restless one wiped his face with the back of his hand and laughed, as if this was what he had been waiting for.

  Cael moved then, stepping in fast, grabbing Rynel by the shoulder and wrenching him back. “Back off before you kill him,” he shouted, shoving him away.

  Rynel stumbled, breathing hard, grin fading into something colder.

  Cael took a step back toward the vehicle, chest rising, eyes never leaving him. “It is done.”

  No one answered. The silence between them carried more than restraint. It carried contempt.

  The tone deepened. Lights at the far end of the annex flickered twice and steadied into a bright, painful white.

  The air folded and sound crushed to a single note. A ring of pressure tore outward from the stacks, glass, steel, and breath collapsing together. The hauler beside Cael erupted in a wash of light that was not fire, not heat, but something that hit before the pain could name itself, a pulse that carried through bone and metal alike.

  Cael barely turned before it hit. The shock threw him against the vehicle and broke the light into shards that swarmed the air like molten glass. Rynel and Adryn vanished behind it.

  Rowe saw none of it clearly, only the silhouette of the man by the truck, lifted and flung as the white swallowed everything.

  Then there was only a blinding white light.