"All units, confirm communications again."
James Gordon spoke quietly into the radio on his shoulder, his voice torn into fragments by the cold wind.
"Team A in position."
"Team B in position. Clear line of sight."
"Sniper team has the entire area covered."
The cranes that clamored over the docks by day stood silent beneath the night sky, like sleeping beasts. Huge shipping containers were stacked into a cold metal maze, casting vast swaths of bottomless darkness. The damp, salty sea breeze carried the stench of rotting fish across the faces of every officer lurking in the shadows.
He pulled his jacket tighter, trying to ward off the bone-deep chill brought by the sudden cold snap, but the indescribable unease in his heart was colder still. Crouched behind a gap between containers, he kept his eyes fixed on the abandoned Berth Seven nearby-the transaction site specified in the intelligence.
This time, he had brought the best officers from the Major Crimes Unit and the Narcotics Unit, almost the strongest operational force Central Headquarters could currently muster. Chief Barnes had pinned high hopes on this operation. It was fair to say he was... staking everything on it.
"Jim, look at this! The time, the location, the boat numbers, the head count, even the type of cargo... everything spelled out! One of Falcone's biggest drug-smuggling routes!" Barnes slapped a sheet of paper onto the desk, his voice hoarse with excitement. "This is a gift from God, the opening shot of our counterattack! I want you to lead the team personally. Mobilize everyone you can, catch them with the goods, and shut it down in one stroke!"
Gordon read the intelligence carefully twice, then asked in confusion, "Is this... your handwriting?"
"Yes. I received an anonymous call and wrote it down. The