The rain had turned into a cold, salt-laced mist by the time the clock on the Hudson dockyards struck 2:00 AM.
Pier 42 was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, crane towers, and sodium floodlights that bled orange light across the slick asphalt. Dozens of armed men in dark tactical jackets milled around a panamanian freighter—Fisk’s top enforcers, armed with submachine guns, guarding two armored vans parked right by the gangway. Inside those vans sat the physical ledgers, encrypted hard drives, and bonds that kept the Kingpin’s empire connected to every corrupt senator from Albany to Washington.
From the top of an adjacent crane, two miles out, Felicia Hardy adjusted her thermal binoculars.
"Alright, lover boy," she murmured into her earpiece, leaning against the cold iron framework. "You've got twenty armed guards, two heavy machine gun nests on the lower deck, and a patrol boat circling the channel. If you're going to make an entrance, now's the—"
She paused. The line was completely dead.
Felicia pulled off her earpiece, looking down at the small transmitter unit on her glove. It hadn't been jammed—it had been crushed. Jack had dropped the earpiece on her velvet carpet back at the loft, right next to a half-burnt soda pull-tab ring and a sticky note that read:
‘Thanks for the Scotch, Kitty. Don't wait up for dinner. HAHAHA!’
Felicia clicked her tongue, a mix of irritation and genuine disbelief washing over her face. "Idiot... he went in completely blind."
Down on the pier, two guards in thick winter coats were sharing a cigarette under the shadow of a stacked blue container.
"I'm telling you, boss wants everything loaded by three," one muttered, flicking his ash into the water. "Some psycho burned down the Union Allied legal office this morning. The boss is cleanin' house before the Feds start asking—"
Clack.
A faint, rhythmic wooden sound echoed from the dark gap between two containers behind them.
"Who's there?" The guard snapped his submachine gun up, thumbing the safety off. His partner pulled a heavy flashlight from his belt, shining the beam into the narrow corridor.
The white light cut through the fog, illuminating a tall, gaunt figure sitting cross-legged on an empty wooden crate ten yards away.
Jack was wearing his blood-stained coat over his fresh bandages. His eyes were wide, sunken, and completely devoid of human light under the harsh beam. In his lap rested an old gallon-sized metal tin of industrial paint thinner, its cap already removed.
"Hey, pal," the guard barked, stepping forward. "This is private property. Hands where I can—"
"Hey, fellas," Jack rasped, his voice smooth, raspy, and uncomfortably calm. "Quick question... do you know what happens when you mix copper powder, ammonium nitrate, and thirty-year-old Scotch?"
The guards froze. "What?"
"Neither do I!" Jack grinned, his yellowed teeth flashing under the beam. "So let's find out together! HAHAHAHA!"
[9.2%... SYNCHRONIZATION SPIKE... ADRENALINE OVERDRIVE]
Jack kicked the tin forward. The clear liquid splashed across the wet asphalt right onto the guards' boots. Before the men could pull their triggers, Jack struck an antique brass zippo against his thigh and tossed the flaming lighter straight into the pool.
WOOSH!
A blinding wall of orange flame erupted instantly, swallowing the fog and sending both guards screaming into the icy Hudson River.
The entire pier went into instant, chaotic frenzy. Alarms began to blare across the dockyard—a high-pitched siren that cut through the night—as spotlight after spotlight swung toward the fire.
"CONTAINER BAY THREE!" a commander yelled through a megaphone from the ship's bridge. "OPEN FIRE! KILL ANYTHING THAT MOVES!"
A storm of automatic gunfire tore into the blue container, sparks flying like fireworks as lead chewed through the corrugated iron.
High up on the crane, Felicia watched through her scope as the pier exploded into violence. Her breath hitched. "Jack... you suicidal bastard..."
From inside the blazing wall of fire, a silhouette stumbled out—not running away, not taking cover, but striding directly toward the armored vans with a rusty crowbar in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other, laughing louder than the siren.
"DARE!" Jack screamed into the night, his voice echoing off the metallic hull of the freighter as he fired a slug straight into the fuel tank of the first armored van. "DARE TO BURN, BOYS! HAHAHAHAHA!"
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