Strike. Seal. Survive.

Rain slashed sideways across the pier as Lieutenant Jake Riker crouched behind a rusting cargo container, the ocean wind slicing through his black tactical gear. The intel had been clear, too clear. A breakaway terror cell from al-Qaeda, led by a former Syrian chemical warfare officer named Ayman Rahal, had smuggled a shipment of VX nerve agent into the Port of Newark. The strike was set for sunrise. Riker had six hours to stop it.

The rest of SEAL Team Six’s Echo Unit was scattered across two other ports, chasing parallel leads. This one was Riker’s alone. Just how he liked it.

His comm crackled.
Ops: “Riker, you still shadowing the container?”
Riker: “Shadowing implies there’s time for patience. These guys are about to move. I’m going in.”
Ops: “Orders are to observe...”
Riker: “Orders don’t mean much when the clock’s bleeding out. I’ll call you after.”

He clicked the comm off. The team could chew him out later.

Riker slid from cover, boots splashing in oily rainwater, and eased toward the target container, its sides unmarked except for a stenciled “OCEANIC EXPORTS.” His Glock was ready, his silencer screwed on. His heartbeat was steady, but his instincts were a drumbeat in his skull.

At the far end of the pier, voices. Three men in waterproof jackets, their shapes backlit by the sodium glow of dock lamps. One was tall, gaunt, moving like a man who gave orders. Rahal. The other two were muscle, AKs slung casually, like they were out for a walk.

Riker’s plan was simple:

Ghost in.

Neutralize the guards.

Stop Rahal before he rolled the VX into the city.

But as Rahal turned, Riker’s stomach tightened. The man was smiling. And talking in perfect English.

Rahal: “Mr. Cooper, thank you for your business.”

Riker froze. A fourth man stepped into view, a port security chief in uniform. Cooper. Traitor.

Riker adjusted his aim, lining up Cooper first. But before he could fire, a fifth figure emerged from the shadows, holding a remote detonator.

Rahal: “We’re done here. Move the truck.”

Two more men rolled out a box truck from between the stacks of containers. Riker’s mind did the math: with the wind speed and a VX release here, downtown Manhattan would be choking in under twenty minutes.

He moved. Silent, lethal. First guard, two rounds in the back of the skull. Second guard spun, mouth open, two more. Riker grabbed him as he fell, lowering the body to the wet ground without a sound.

Rahal whipped around.
Rahal: “Who’s there?”

Riker stepped into the dim light, Glock raised.
Riker: “The guy you don’t want to meet.”

Bullets ripped through the night, Cooper firing wildly. Riker dove sideways, glass shattering as a dock lamp exploded overhead. He rolled behind a steel bollard, then popped out, putting a round clean through Cooper’s throat. The man crumpled.

The detonator man bolted for the truck. Riker sprinted, firing, two hits to the spine dropped him before he made it ten feet. But Rahal was moving too, into the truck cab, engine coughing to life.

Riker leapt onto the running board, yanked the door open, and jammed the Glock under Rahal’s jaw.
Riker: “Turn it off.”
Rahal: “You won’t shoot. If I die, my men trigger the other...”

Riker didn’t let him finish. He smashed Rahal’s head into the steering wheel, hard enough to make him slump, then dragged him out into the rain.

The truck still idled, the container doors swinging wide. Inside: two steel drums marked VX-112. Enough to wipe out a city block in seconds.

Ops’ voice finally broke through his comm.
Ops: “Riker, talk to me, ”
Riker: “Target neutralized. VX secure. Need HazMat NOW.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, real ones this time. Newark PD. DHS. Too late for them to do the dirty work. Riker stood over Rahal, who was groaning awake.

Riker: “You thought you could bring hell here? This is my backyard.”

He knelt, eyes locked on Rahal’s.
Riker: “And I bury my trash.”

He zip-tied the terrorist’s wrists, then stepped back as flashing red-and-blue lights washed over the rain-slick pier. DHS agents swarmed the scene, HazMat teams in yellow suits rushing the container.

One agent nodded at Riker.
Agent: “You stopped a mass casualty event. How’d you do it alone?”

Riker gave a half-smile.
Riker: “Wasn’t alone. Had the storm.”

As the agents hauled Rahal away, Riker walked off the pier into the night, boots splashing through puddles, already thinking about the next threat. Because in his world, the next one always came.

THE END