Chapter Three #2
Niko had flown them in the morning after Bateman’s call.
The team worked like a storm cell, tight and coordinated.
Within a day they had turned the warehouse into a functioning command hub, folding tables lined with laptops, crates of weapons and tech stacked by the far wall, sleeping cots pushed into corners.
The attached garage gave them cover for their vehicles—three unmarked SUVs they’d acquired through a contact of Tane’s.
Nothing flashy, nothing traceable. The setup was temporary but strong enough to feel like control.
The ocean was close. Kael could hear it through the ventilation at night, the rhythm of waves clashing against steel and rock. It should’ve been calming. Instead, it kept him awake.
He scrolled through the port manifests on his tablet, every file marked and color-coded.
Wraith’s intel had been solid—too solid.
Every container, every movement, every crew rotation had checked out exactly as reported.
Sokolov’s schedule ran like precision clockwork.
Petrov’s truck ran the same route every Tuesday, the same guards rotated shifts, the same cranes lifted the same coded containers.
It was efficient, mechanical. Predictable.
And that was what made Kael nervous.
He glanced across the table at his team.
Niko sat hunched over a map of the port, coffee cup balanced on one knee.
Tane leaned against the wall, weapon partially stripped down for cleaning, every motion methodical.
Luca typed steadily, eyes flicking from feed to feed, his drones giving live aerial overlays of the docks.
Keanu sprawled on a chair backwards, flipping one of his knives over his knuckles, metal glinting in the low light.
They were home in chaos, each man an extension of the others.
Kael led, Niko handled logistics and extraction, Tane took interrogation and overwatch, Luca ran tech and counter-surveillance, and Keanu handled anything that could explode, sharp, or required fast fists.
They had fought long enough together to operate on instinct.
“Manifest three still matches.” Niko flicked a pen at the screen. “Petrov’s truck leaves the holding yard at oh-two-twenty. Security shifts at oh-one-forty-five. Crew’s small. We could intercept and be ghosts before the sun hits the water.”
Tane checked his watch. “Feels too easy.”
“That’s because it is,” Kael said quietly. “Everything lines up too clean. Makes me itch.”
Luca didn’t look up from his screens. “No pings on sensors. No external interference. Wraith scrubbed local surveillance. Drones show no heat anomalies. We’re ghosts.”
“Exactly,” Kael said. “And that’s the problem. It’s all too perfect.”
Niko leaned back, arms folded. “You want to abort?”
Kael hesitated. The team fell silent. The air pressed heavy.
“Not yet,” he said finally. “We move as planned. But if anything shifts, we pull. No heroics. We’re not here to play savior, we’re here to shut this down.”
Keanu grinned, spinning the knife once before catching it by the hilt. “Define heroics.”
Kael shot him a look that made him grin wider. “The kind that gets you dead.”
“Copy that,” Keanu said, still smiling. “Always good to have a definition.”
Tane looked between them. “If this goes sideways, what’s the exit?”
Kael nodded toward the whiteboard. “Two exfil routes. We move the kids through the west gate and load the trucks at the south road. If it burns, we take the barge on the jetty. Niko, you handle evac timing. Luca, jam comms and redirect cameras once we breach. Tane, you take high ground and keep eyes on the east dock. Keanu, you’re point. Quick and clean.”
“Always am.” Keanu slid the blade away.
They went quiet again, a soldier’s quiet—the kind born from shared understanding. Kael pressed the comm device into his ear, the almost invisible piece sitting comfortably behind the cartilage. Pathfinder tech. Hogan had called it “a gift with range that could whisper through a hurricane.”
Kael tapped the mic once. “Black Tide, call signs active, sound check.”
****
When they went into a live situation, they went call signs active, they became their team, and always used their call signs. It was a matter of safety for sure, but it also helped them to separate who they were at war from who they were at home.
“Copy,” Niko “Reef” said.
“Loud and clear,” Tane “Manō” added.
“Still breathing,” Keanu “Torch” muttered.
“Online,” Luca “Breaker” confirmed.
Kael “Surge” smiled faintly. “Good. Let’s get it done.”
They rolled out close to midnight, three dark SUVs cutting silently through Newark’s industrial backroads.
The docks glittered in the distance like a city within a city, cranes and lights shifting under a low haze.
The night smelled of salt, tar, and gasoline.
A storm front was building somewhere over the water, pressure heavy in the air.
Surge drove the lead vehicle, Reef navigating beside him. Manō followed in the second SUV, Breaker and his tech kit in the back. Torch rode shotgun in the third, tapping his knives together like a drummer before battle.
“You know,” Reef said, his voice quiet, “you ever think we’ve done this too many times? That we’re just waiting for the one that goes sideways?”
Surge’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Every time.”
Reef huffed. “Good. Thought I was getting sentimental.”
Surge gave him a side glance. “That’d be a first.”
They pulled into a dark lane behind the warehouses and killed the engines.
The team disembarked in silence, splitting off with well-rehearsed precision.
The port was awake but quiet—workers moving like ghosts under halogen lights.
Surge crouched by the edge of a shipping container and scanned the perimeter through his scope.
The hum of cranes carried faintly over the water.
“Manō in position,” came the whisper through comms. “I have the overwatch.”
“Breaker has eyes,” followed a soft murmur. “Drones are airborne. Feeds are live.”
“Torch ready,” the point man added. “Waiting on green.”
Reef’s voice steadied over the line. “Truck’s two minutes out.”
Surge’s gut tightened. The air shifted, and for a second, the hair on his arms stood up. He scanned the rooftops, the horizon, the black stretch of water. Nothing. But the feeling didn’t fade.
“Something’s wrong,” he murmured.
“Define wrong,” Reef said softly.
Surge’s voice was a low growl. “Too clean. Same as before.”
“You calling it?” Breaker asked.
Surge hesitated, instinct warring with reason.
Before he could answer, a new voice crackled over the comms—low, deliberate, too controlled to be anything but experienced, altered for sure.
“Black Tide,” it said. “This is Wraith. Target’s in play. You’ve got a window. Take the shot, remove all threats and burn the route. Rescue the kids. Move now.”
Surge froze, blood pounding in his ears. “Wraith? You don’t give my team orders.”
“Then consider it advice,” Wraith said, tone sharp. “Sokolov’s on-site. You wait, you lose him. I’ve been watching him longer than you have. You want to make this count? You do it now.”
Surge ground his teeth. “You don’t get to decide when we move.”
“You think I haven’t been here before?” Wraith barked. “Looking for fire when there’s no smoke. Take the shot. You’ll save more than you could ever lose in this moment.”
Surge’s breath hitched. You’ll save more than you could ever lose in this moment. A flash of a voice in the dark, a touch, the sound of laughter under rain. It vanished as quick as it came, leaving a hollow ache.
His tone turned to iron. “We’ll talk after this, Wraith.”
“You won’t find me,” came the cold but confident reply.
“Don’t bet on it,” Surge said, then allowed the ice of an imminent mission to fill his veins. “Alpha, move. Bravo, perimeter. Let’s end this.”
They surged forward, silent shadows slipping through steel and salt.
Manō watched over them from the high point, rifle sighted.
Reef moved flank while Torch’s knives caught the light once before cutting it again.
Breaker’s drones moved silently above, eyes in the sky. The team closed around Shed Five.
The truck rolled in, headlights slicing through mist. Surge’s hand signaled. The world narrowed to breath and movement.
“Now,” he ordered.
Chaos erupted. The Tide moved like a storm surge—controlled violence, sharp and absolute.
Manō’s first shot cracked the air, dropping the guard before he could shout.
Torch was already in the doorway, knives flashing.
Surge and Reef stormed the truck, tearing open doors, cutting ties.
Inside—crates, cages, frightened eyes. Children.
Women. Everything the intel had promised and more.
Surge’s chest burned. “Move them out,” he commanded. “Manō, clear the rear. Torch, cover our six. Breaker, jam the port feed.”
The comm in his ear hissed once more. “Good work, Surge,” Wraith said, voice like smoke. “Get them out. I’ll cover the cleanup.”
Surge didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to.
They moved fast, loading the rescued civilians into the SUVs. Reef coordinated the exit timing, Breaker looped surveillance, and Manō watched the perimeter through his scope. Everything flowed the way it should—but that feeling still lingered. Someone else was watching.
As Surge shut the final truck door, he looked back toward the docks and caught movement in the shadows—too deliberate to be random. The shape disappeared before he could lock onto it.
He touched his comm. “Reef. We’re not alone.”
Reef’s tone sharpened. “Eyes up. We’ll find them.”
Surge nodded, even though no one could see it. “We always do.”
Black Tide rolled out of the port, engines low and steady, the lights of the Newark docks fading behind them. Their ledger was secured and righteous, the rescued safe, but Surge couldn’t shake the echo of Wraith’s voice.
Ghosts didn’t just haunt—they hunted.