Breach the Pinnacle

 

 

Chapter 1

 

The salt-tinged mist crawled over the container yard, dampening Amir Gupta's clipboard as he checked off another box on his inspection form. Twenty-three years at Red Hook, and he still found comfort in the monotony of procedure. Numbers aligned, forms matched, containers moved. Order from chaos.

​

Until they didn't.

​

"Mr. Gupta? The agent from Majestic Shipping is asking again about Siren Song's manifest." The intern—Kevin? Kyle?—shifted from one foot to another.

 

"Tell him I'm still reviewing." Amir tapped his pen against the clipboard. Something wasn't adding up. Container MSCU-7395142 listed electronic components from Penang, but the weight distribution was off by nearly two tons. The customs declaration showed the proper seals, yet the digital signature timestamp came forty-eight hours after the container had allegedly been loaded. A clerical error, most likely. But in Amir's experience, clerical errors often masked deliberate ones.

​

His phone buzzed. Rajiv from customs wanting to know why the shipment was being held. Then another call from the shipping agent. Then a text from his supervisor. Everyone was in a hurry. Everyone wanting exceptions.

 

The rain picked up, droplets drumming against metal containers stacked like children's blocks across the terminal. His arthritic knee throbbed with the weather change. Sonia had been after him to retire, move to Tampa near their daughter. Maybe she was right. No. Not until things were done properly.

 

He trudged across the wet concrete toward where MSCU-7395142 had been offloaded. The container sat apart from others in the secondary inspection area, its blue paint faded from ocean crossings, rust bleeding from the corners like old wounds.

 

"We need to open it."

 

The shipping agent—Donaldson—materialized beside him, umbrella clutched in white-knuckled hands.

 

"Mr. Patel, this is highly irregular. The paperwork is being corrected as we speak."

 

"That's not how this works." Amir's voice remained level, the way it always did when someone tried to bypass procedure. "Container gets flagged, container gets inspected. You know the protocol."

 

"These are high-priority electronics for a client in Manhattan."

 

"Then they'll be delayed by approximately forty minutes while we confirm contents." Amir made another notation on his clipboard. "Unless there's something specific causing your concern?

 

"Donaldson's jaw tightened. "I'm merely trying to satisfy my client."

 

"And I'm merely doing my job." Amir signaled to the yard crew waiting nearby. "Break the seal. Standard inspection."The agent's phone was already out, fingers stabbing at the screen as he stepped away. The sound of the bolt cutters snapping through the container's seal echoed across the yard. Metal on metal. Final. The first worker pulled the locking bar and tugged at the container doors. They swung open with a rusty groan.

 

Then came the smell.

 

Amir had encountered dead things before—rats in cargo holds, spoiled food shipments, once even smuggled exotic animals that hadn't survived the journey. This was different. Heavier. Human. His stomach clenched as the workers stumbled backward, one doubling over to vomit on the wet pavement.

 

The bodies weren't arranged so much as discarded. Twelve of them, twisted among partially crushed wooden crates like broken mannequins. Limbs entangled, faces frozen in final expressions. The humid Malaysian heat had accelerated decomposition, turning flesh into a sickening palette of greens and blacks. The cooler journey across the ocean had then slowed it, creating a grotesque timeline of death across the victims. Some bodies had bloated to bursting while others retained haunting remnants of humanity, their fingernails still clean, skin merely waxy and gray.

 

Blood roared in Amir's ears. For twenty-three years, he'd built his reputation on attention to detail, on following rules that others considered tedious. Now these details would haunt his dreams. Men. Women. Not in the desperate clothing of those usually found in human trafficking cases. These people wore the remnants of business attire. Tailored pants. A woman's blouse with pearl buttons. A man's Rolex still strapped to a swollen wrist.

 

Amir forced himself to look systematically. To catalog what he saw as he would any other irregularity. That's when he noticed the scars. Precise surgical marks along collarbones and the bases of skulls. Too uniform to be coincidental. The closest body—a woman with graying hair—had fallen with her hand clutched around something. A small notebook, its pages warped from the humidity but still intact.

 

Amir snapped on latex gloves from his pocket and crouched down, ignoring the protest from his knee. His fingers trembled as he carefully extracted the notebook from the woman's rigid grasp.The pages contained equations. Not the simple mathematics of shipping weights and container counts that filled his days, but complex formulations with symbols he vaguely recognized from his engineering courses decades ago. Quantum notation. The language of theoretical physics written in a steady, meticulous hand.

 

Behind him, Donaldson was shouting into his phone. The yard workers had called for port security. Soon this container would become a crime scene, and these details—the ones that didn't match any scenario in Amir's procedural handbooks—would be someone else's problem. But he knew the paperwork. He'd seen the inconsistencies. He'd followed the procedure when others pushed for exceptions. He replaced the notebook in the woman's hand.

 

* * *

 

Scully's phone buzzed against his hip as he ducked under the yellow tape. Couldn't get five minutes of peace these days. He silenced it without looking. The Commissioner could wait. Rain peppered the dock in tiny pinpricks. The reek hit him first—death mixed with salt air and diesel. Bodies in a container. Nothing new in his twenty years. But something felt different about this one.

 

"Captain." Houlihan, one of the first responders, nodded toward the open container. "Twelve bodies. Not your typical human trafficking."Scully grunted acknowledgment, pulling on latex gloves that stretched tight across his knuckles.

 

"Is the Media contained?"

 

"For now. Port security's keeping them at the gate, but you know how that goes."

 

"Like trying to keep rats out of a dumpster." Inside the container, the crime scene techs worked with methodical efficiency. Camera flashes strobed the grim spectacle. Scully's eyes watered from the stench, but he forced himself to look. Really look. Business attire. Surgical scars. Not migrants desperate for a better life—something else entirely.

 

His phone vibrated again. Commissioner. Third call in ten minutes. Scully kneeled beside the woman with the notebook, careful not to disturb the scene. Her manicured fingers curled around a small book. One hand bore a small callus between thumb and forefinger—pen grip, not manual labor.

 

"Anyone touch that notebook?"

 

"No sir," said the lead tech. "Waiting on you."

 

Scully nodded to the tech, who photographed it from multiple angles before carefully extracting it from the woman's grip. The pages contained symbols and equations Scully couldn't begin to decipher.

 

"Bag it separate, priority evidence." His phone buzzed again. Christ. "Scully," he answered, stepping out of the container.

 

"What the hell is happening down there?" Commissioner Delaney's voice crackled through the speaker, edged with panic. "I've got the Mayor and two congressmen breathing down my neck."

 

"Twelve bodies in a shipping container. Not typical trafficking victims. Still gathering facts."

 

"Election's three weeks out, Scully. This needs handling with extreme care."

 

Politics. Always goddamn politics."I'm handling it," Scully said, watching another news van pull up at the perimeter.

 

"Keep this contained. No statements beyond the basics. Nothing about who these people might be. Clear?"

 

"Crystal." Scully ended the call, turning to find Detective Mercer approaching with a tablet.

 

"Ship manifests," Mercer said. "Container was listed as electronics components from Kuala Lumpur. Paperwork shows it transferred through three different vessels before arriving here."

 

"Shell game," Scully muttered. He moved to the next body, a man in his forties wearing what remained of a button-down shirt and slacks. Hands told stories if you knew how to read them. This man's fingertips had distinctive patterns—tiny burn marks and calluses consistent with microelectronics work. Soldering, fine-wire manipulation. Not a laborer. Not a typical trafficking victim.

 

"Captain," called one of the techs. "Found something."

 

Scully moved over. The tech pointed to a barely visible tattoo on one victim's wrist—a small circular design with geometric patterns. "That's the third one with this mark. Different locations, same design." Scully frowned. "Document and photograph each one." His brain itched with possibility. Specialized workers. Matching tattoos. Quantum equations. The rain intensified, drumming against the metal container. Another news van. Then another. Like sharks sensing blood.

 

His phone rang again. Mayor's office this time.

 

"Need to make a statement soon," Mercer said, gesturing toward the growing media presence.

 

"They can wait. "Scully moved methodically between the bodies, collecting details, building a mental framework. One man had a healed incision behind his ear—surgical, precise. Another had strange calluses on his fingertips, like burn marks. The woman with the notebook had a small mesh-like scar at the base of her skull. Patterns emerged. Connections formed.

 

His phone buzzed. Congressional aide now. Beautiful. Regina would make her macaroni and cheese tonight. Their youngest had a soccer game at four. Normal life continuing while he stood among the dead.

 

"Set up a press podium," Scully finally told Mercer. "Basic facts only. Bodies discovered during routine inspection. Investigation is ongoing. No speculation on identities or origin."

 

"And if they push?"

 

"They always push. Stick to the script." The Commissioner would be satisfied. The politicians could breathe easy until after the election. But Scully knew—this wasn't just a tragedy to be managed. It was a puzzle with pieces that didn't fit any familiar pattern. As media voices grew louder beyond the perimeter, Scully took one last look at the container's grim contents. These weren't desperate people seeking a better life. They were something else entirely. And someone had gone to considerable trouble to make them disappear.