Page 168 of The Fourth Option
Ahead, close to the steep shore, he spotted the first set of pilings beneath the pier. He cut the propulsion device and kicked against the current to remain stationary while reconning the target.
The hulking silhouette of the Nectar Sugar Refinery loomed just up from the dock. The rust-streaked silos, skeletal catwalks, and the massive conveyor towers that fed raw cane into the processing lines were prominent against the night sky. Sodium vapor lights cast a jaundiced glow over the dock, where a bulk cargo ship sat moored, its hull towering like a fortress wall. A hummingbird logo was stenciled below the bridge windows.
The factory was feeding America’s addiction to sugar, and something else: opioids.
Walker had the Dorado manifests and had seen the pallets. He had read stories in Connor’s journals of kids twitching and dying on ERgurneys. Connor had been documenting all of it. He was trying to stop Snowball before it became the next fentanyl.
Stay focused on the enemy’s resources within tactical reach.
There it was, right in front of him.
He maneuvered beneath the dock pilings and waited. No movement. No sentries. Just the low hum of machinery and the distant clank of metal.
Walker removed his fins and clipped them along with the Seascooter to the piling with one-inch webbing. The gear bobbed gently in the eddy, ready for exfil.
He reached for the ladder bolted to the dock’s underside and climbed with practiced efficiency. At the top, he crouched low, eyes sweeping the refinery grounds. The air smelled of molasses and rust. At this hour, the plant was shut down. A conveyor belt stretched overhead, designed to feed cane into the processing tower. Even now, at 0200, steam hissed from a nearby vent. He pulled on the paracord, bringing the jerry cans up to the dock.
From there, he moved quickly, low and deliberate, hugging the shadows between the silos.
First target: the centrifuge building, where refined sugar was separated and dried. He placed jerry-one behind a steel support column, wedging it into a recess near the electrical conduit. From the cooler, he retrieved the timer and armed it, setting it to detonate in ten minutes.
Second target: the boiler house, a squat brick structure with aging pressure tanks and exposed piping. Walker ducked beneath a catwalk, climbed a short ladder, and placed jerry-two behind a rusted valve cluster. He set its timer for twelve minutes.
Final target: the loading dock, where pallets of bagged sugar were staged for shipment. He crept past a forklift, parked and silent, and tucked jerry-three beneath the dock ramp, behind a stack of pallets. Fourteen minutes.
Each placement was surgical. Each timer staggered. The sequence would cripple Nectar’s core operations, their refining, power, and distribution.
Walker retraced his steps, slipped back to the dock’s edge, and climbed down the ladder. He reattached his fins and connected the cooler to the dry bags. He then activated the Seascooter and kicked back into the current, moving into deeper water.
He rolled onto his back. The refinery loomed behind him, a rusting beast of industry. He swam to a buoy, clung to the cable to steady himself against the current, and watched.
The first fireball erupted from the centrifuge building with an orange bloom that lit the riverbank like a sunrise.
Minutes later, a deeper explosion tore through the boiler house, sending a plume of steam and debris skyward.
The final blast ripped through the loading dock, scattering pallets and igniting a brief inferno. Metal groaned. An elevator tore loose as a silo toppled, knocking another over like a set of flaming dominoes.
Walker floated in silence, watching Nectar burn.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Dallas, Texas
DEREK MATHESON SATbefore his laptop in a sleek suite at Hôtel Swexan, high above the Dallas Arts District. Windows beyond his screen framed the city’s skyline, bathed in golden haze. Reunion Tower blinked in the distance. The glass spires of downtown mirrored the sky.
The annual BioFrontiers Summit conference was in full swing downstairs, but Matheson had retreated to his suite, preferring solitude to schmoozing. He had left her downstairs to deal with the media. Though he had never been shy in front of a camera, the news that Walt Kimbel had been murdered had sent shock waves through the industry. The only good news was that the Metairie Police Department had kept the death-by-fentanyl details quiet. Matheson had learned of it from Icy.
He wore a tailored gray Ermenegildo Zegna suit, looking every inch the man of the hour, but his posture betrayed him; shoulders hunched, fingers twitching at the edge of his desk.
Vargas glared at him from the screen. Behind the drug lord, the Pacific glittered under the mid-afternoon sun as waves crashed against the cliffs below in rhythmic bursts that echoed through the airy villa perched high above the Salvadoran coast. The studio-grade webcam, rigged to track movement, followed him as he paced, shirt open, cigar unlit. His home office walls were lined with polished rosewood, gold-framed oil paintings.
“You’ve lost control of your DA girlfriend,” Vargas snapped, voice sharp with contempt. Despite the satellite bounce and the heavy encryption software running on both ends of the connection, Vargas’s image was in high fidelity, which only made things worse. “Why hasn’t this assassin been caught?”
Matheson cleared his throat. “I assure you, no stone is being left unturned in the search for Chris Walker.”
Vargas stopped pacing and glared into the camera.
“I don’t want stones turned over, I want him dead!”
