John Crecy's silhouette melted into the shadows of the dock, like a drop of water vanishing into sewage. The trembling fear of Crippled Buddy, left slumped on the ground, trailed behind him like a spent shell ejected from a gun.
He needed a nest—a place to make final preparations and survive the hours before boarding. Near the massive drainage outlets of the city, forgotten corners were always available. He walked along the breakwater, eyes sharp, scanning the abandoned warehouses and stacked containers. At last, behind a row of severely rusted containers, he found an old refrigerated cargo box, partially dismantled and awaiting recycling. It slanted into the mud, its lock long broken, exuding a pungent stench of rust, decayed insulation, and remnants of long-forgotten food.
Perfect.
He pried open the warped door and slipped inside. The interior was cramped, dark, and cold—but exactly the kind of unnoticed hideaway he required. He closed the door, leaving just a narrow crack for ventilation, sealing the world outside.
From a pocket, he retrieved a small military flashlight, twisting it on. The beam cut through the darkness. He unloaded his heavy military backpack and opened it again. This time, it was no casual check, but the most meticulous gear inspection he'd ever performed.
Every "gift" was pulled out and scrutinized in the cold flashlight beam. The Beretta 92FS was disassembled; each part wiped with an oiled cloth before being reassembled. The slide moved smoothly, the firing pin spring calibrated perfectly. Magazines were filled—each golden 9mm round almost a cruel work of art. The M9 combat knife's blade glided over a coarse whetstone several times, producing a faint rasp until the chill of its edge could be felt even at the fingertips.
C4 blocks were checked for intact plastic seals and clean detonator interfaces. Grenade safety pins were verified as fully secure. Every buckle, every strap of his tactical vest was tested repeatedly to ensure nothing would loosen under extreme movement.
His focus was absolute, his expression icy. He wasn't preparing for a possible suicidal vendetta; he was executing a routine high-risk mission. Only occasionally, when his fingers brushed the hard edge of the photo in his chest pocket, did a faint ripple of emotion cross his eyes—instantly drowned by a deeper cold.
Time passed in absolute silence. The flashlight was his only companion, illuminating the cold tools of death in his hands, and the desert-like resolve in his gaze.
Three a.m. The harbor outside had quieted slightly, but another, more covert activity was stirring.
It was time to move.
He re-packed all his gear, hoisting the backpack evenly onto his shoulders—it had become part of him. Pushing open the refrigerator door, the salty, cold night air rushed in. No moonlight, only the distant, rotating beam of a dock lighthouse, sweeping over the ruins.
He ghosted through the maze of containers, avoiding scattered lights and patrolling security flashlights. The layout of West Dock 3 was etched into his mind from daytime observations and Buddy's directions.
The Seashell sat quietly at its berth. More decrepit by night, it resembled a beached steel beast. The hull sat deep in the water, evidence of a full cargo hold. No deck lights were on, only faint yellow light from the cabin and a blinking red dot—a smoker on deck.
John crouched behind a pile of fishing nets, watching patiently. Aside from the deck smoker, another shadow shifted near the stern. At least two people. Buddy was likely in the cabin, preparing.
He scanned the boarding path. A rudimentary wooden gangway bridged dock and hull.
Seconds ticked by. The smoker flicked ash, stomped it out, and gestured to the other figure before heading below. The moment had come.
John sprang from shadow like a leopard, covering the gap between dock and ship in a few silent steps, landing on the swaying gangway. His movements were astonishingly light; the heavy backpack seemed nonexistent. Once on deck, the pungent mix of fish, rotting vegetables, and diesel hit him. He ducked instantly into the shadows of cargo crates covered with tarps.
The deck was temporarily empty. Muffled voices and laughter came from below.
He wasn't here to fight—he needed concealment. His eyes swept the deck. Hatch covers were shut tight. The bow anchor locker? Too small and likely checked. Lifeboats? Covered, narrow.
Finally, his gaze locked on a small maintenance hatch at the stern—a passage usually to the engine or ballast tanks, greasy and smelling strongly of oil. Nobody would willingly enter.
He moved silently to the hatch, testing the handle. Locked. But he was prepared. A thin probe from his multi-tool slipped into the lock, ears close, carefully manipulating the mechanism.
"Click."
A barely audible sound. He slowly swung open the heavy steel hatch. A wave of stifling air, heavy with oil, rust, and sewage, poured out. Darkness stretched below, only the low hum of machinery audible.
Without hesitation, he slipped inside, closing the hatch behind him, leaving a narrow slit for ventilation. The space was tighter than expected, pipes crisscrossing, coated in grime, and hot. He curled into a relatively dry corner, body pressed against the vibrating steel hull.
This was his steel coffin—the ferry to hell.
He could hear footsteps and muffled commands above. The engine roared to life, deep and powerful. The hull shuddered. Shouts from mooring ropes being undone echoed faintly.
The Seashell lurched roughly and began to pull away from the dock.
John Crecy closed his eyes in the darkness, regulating his breath, adapting to the hostile environment. Engine vibrations and the hull's tremors transmitted through the steel, shaking him to the bone.
The voyage had begun. Destination: Loli Island.
In his chest pocket, Lily's photo pressed against his heart. Amid the filth and darkness, he could almost see the terror in her eyes again.
This time, he would not suppress the murderous intent rising within him.
He would let it boil.