The frigid air in his nostrils was permeated with the fetid miasma of the fishery and the literal tons of gull shit left by animals smart enough to have long fled to their beachfront love nests in Freeport and Key West. ‘Yet here I am, at some rundown harbor outside Wilmington,’ thought Gene Devereaux as he snapped straight the wool lined lapel of his flight jacket and tightened his scarf. ‘Waiting for my ship to come in.’

The Delaware River seemed dead, or perhaps asleep, waiting for the light of spring to entice life back into its graces. The grey sky overhead promised yet another brutal winter storm in the next few hours, and possibly hypothermia for anyone fool enough to be caught out in it; the shipment was due for arrival in forty-five minutes. “It had better not be late,” he muttered to the ember of his cigarette. His boss, KingSao, had thought it best to have a reliable family member ready to board the La Marsopa, a coal-burning supply ship of about five men out of Maracaibo, at its refueling point in Miami to see it through the second half of the voyage. Gene worried about what kind of trouble Sao was expecting to make him do such a thing. But six-hundred and twenty kilograms of quality, uncut Columbian cocaine, sold at ten-percent of its American market value, was, he figured, worth going out of your way to protect.

It was February and well below freezing, as cold a winter as this part of the country had seen since the Depression. Goose-pimples rose so high one felt as if he were stuck with millions of needles, and air seemed to freeze in the chest, making even the task of breathing an agony. Gene reached into the breast pocket for his flask, and took a large swig of whiskey.  Its sweet, smoky tendrils reached out to tickle his throat and sinuses before settling down to feed a hearth in his stomach. It availed him little, however, and he found himself whipping out his Zippo and, while carefully sheltering it from any errant gale, sparking a flame.

‘Damn this jacket.’ Despite the warnings and japes of his friends that it would not be near enough to keep him warm, Gene couldn’t bring himself to consider any alternative. But when all you have to keep you warm is memories, a man’s resolution may waver. It had seen him through so much, though. Would it see him through the years, months, days to come? He fingered the patch at his breast reading Devereaux, the frayed stitching of one corner that had been threatening to come loose for years, and yet again he repeated the mantra that seemed to now sum up his existence. ‘Sorry, Pa...’

He ground out his Strike on the rotting beams of the pier, and yet waited, leaning against the wall of the decrepit dock house. The place was well out of the way of where most international shipments bound to Philadelphia would be received and it had taken Gene almost two hours to get here from Philly in a twelve-year-old Sterling shipping truck that reeked of burnt oil and cigar smoke. ‘I don’t understand it, how they all brag about how fast or expensive their cages are. I’ll keep my bike, thanks.’

The sudden rolling crunch of gravel behind him caused to reflexively reach for his .38, but he stopped short when he recognized the coupe. He waved down the driver, signalling where to park.

“ ‘Ey! Yeah, over by the truck. An’ lock the gate behind you, wouldya? I got here a li’l early, but you sure took ya time, didn’ you?” Gene grinned pleasantly, scratched his beard, and lit another cigarette.

 

Goku exited the backseat of the car and stretched, then nodded to his driver to wait in the car. He turned toward Gene and smiled quickly, before looking around the docks. Goku took in all of his surroundings: the chill of the winter air on his face, the soft sploosh of the Delaware river to his left, the persistent knocking of boats on the docks. The smell of the docks reminded him of his childhood in Normandy. Pulling a cigarette from his jacket, Goku attempted to strike a match. But the wind, although not strong, was just enough to make it difficult. After a couple more strikes he strolled over to Gene and shook his hand.

"Sorry, old bat, had to catch up with a couple of ladies on 5th street. They kept me a bit longer than I thought they would." He said with a chuckle.

"Got a light?"

Gene dug his Zippo out of the pocket of his trousers and tossed it to Goku.

"Keep it up, ol' top, and the syph'll see they don't keep ya at all." He chuckled and took another slug of bourbon. "Any idea whass goin' on? Something about this deal seems mighty strange to me. Might be I'm just bein' an ol' paranoiac."

He returned to his place at the wall of the dock house, and absentmindedly cracked his knuckles.

Goku chuckled a bit, lit his cigarette and took a powerful drag. Exhaling slowly, he continued to be on high alert for anything out of the ordinary.

"No STD would dare come aftrer me. They all know I'd kick their asses."

He chuckled again, before taking another drag of his cigarette. After a moment, he turned back to Gene to ask a question.

"So mate, why am I here? I didn't get any info, just a time and a place. Who we gonnna wack?"

'Great god, just what I needed.' A icy blast of wind caused him to shiver violently. He took another belt of whiskey and handed the flask to Goku, hoping the alcohol would ease some nerves.

"Drink some a' dis. Maybe take the itch outta'dat trigger finger a' yo's afore I hafta bury some flatfoot. We're just here ta wait on a shipment like we was tol', den load it up innuh dat dere truck. Easy goon work. ...Wait now,.. 'ell damn my eyes, dere she is now!"

The La Marsopa was cruising upriver, smokestack puffing a great black cloud which traced its route back to the Atlantic. Gene raced back around to the truck, hopped in the cab, and proceeded to back it up to the pier.

Goku beckoned Gene backwords towar the pier, holding up his hand to tell him to stop when he was right at the egde of the dock. He then turned and took in the big steamboat. It was an older model, probably from the late 1800's, and it's color made that painfully obvious. Goku couldn't tell what color exactly that it originally was, but he could tell that it was now a dark brown rust in most places, with some greyish looking paint chipping off in many places. The boat's foghorn sounded off as it drifted slowly into the docks. This made the hair on Goku's neck stand on end. There was something creepy about that sound.

He turned and noticed Gene had gotten out of the truck and was standing next to him, also taking in the appearence of the boat. Goku handed him the now empty whiskey flask with a grin.

"Shouldn't have offered it, mate."

Gene wrenched the flask out of his partner's hand and stuffed it back into his breast pocket, focusing too intently on the events at hand to notice he was dry. "Now why would dey go an' do a thing like dat?" He once more tightened the knot in his scarf; the wind was starting to rise and and with it a great monstrous chill that threatened to freeze Gene solid. His now-heavy breathing started to fog his sunglasses, but he wouldn't take them off.

"Dis was s'posed to be a silent run..." he offered weakly. "They sure's hell would'n do somethin' like 'at onn’a silent run."

He darted up to the edge of the dock and began waving his arms vigorously in the direction of the ship, unsure of whether or not they could even see him from their fair distance away, or whether they would even understand what it was he was trying to communicate. He gave up trying and started walking back to the truck when the foghorn was sounded again, this time so loud it made Gene's head squeal in aggravation, and for much longer. He had no doubt that it could've been heard for miles, and even less that it had been meant to.  The entire world seemed to stop and drain to a point somewhere beneath his feet.

He strode firmly up to Goku, "Walk wimme." They came to the cab of the truck and Gene opened the door. He reached behind the driver's seat with his entire arm and pulled out a well-oiled Thompson and an old Winchester 97 pump-action, as well as an extra fifty-round drum and a few handfuls of shells which he crammed into both pockets of his jacket. He handed the chopper and its extra drum to Goku, keeping the shotgun for himself. He walked out to the lot where Goku's car was parked.

"Now you stay heah an' watch dis road; if'n anybody, I mean anyone, starts comin' down it, you fire a warnin' shot so's I know. I'm'a see if I can get H-Q on the line." He started to walk away, but turned back to his friend with a look of haggard confidence, "No one gets through dat gate, buddy. Not widdout some extra change inn'er pockets, right?" He awkwardly half-smiled, and headed off toward the dockhouse. The La Marsopa was almost at port, and a man on the deck was attempting to wave at Gene, but stopped suddenly when he saw that Gene was armed.

Gene tried the doorknob to the office within the dockhouse, but it was locked. In no lack of a hurry, he stepped back several feet and blasted the knob and much of its door to splinters, and the door creaked inward. Inside was dark and smelled strongly of mildew; every inch of the place was covered in old, rotting paper and an assortment of other junk, so it took him a moment to locate the phone. He picked up the receiver and started dialing, but stopped when he realized the cord connecting it to the telephone had been neatly snipped. He flung the receiver across the room and headed back out the door.

As he stepped back out onto the gravel, he had but a moment to register the figure standing deckside of the ship before an explosion of splinters flew at him from the side of the building, a loud report sounding immediately after. He quickly ducked back inside, slung the Winchester of his shoulder and pulled out his .38. He thanked his stars for having the sense to have had it custom-fitted with an eight-inch barrel; it seemed he would need some range.

As he took a moment to collect his nerves, he noticed in his periphery a shapeless mote which had floated in through the shattered window over his head; it traced a slight spiral in the air before coming to an icy, wet stop on the tip of his nose. He looked across the room through a window on the other side which faced toward the east; a great, whorling black wall was massing overhead, perhaps three counties away, and a ghastly legion of motes had begun to descend upon the landscape. A great surge of wind picked up what refuse in the room it could and spun it into a violent cyclone of disregarded missives and inventory slips. It howled and screamed and shook the tin roof, and did everything it could to disguise the sound of a motorcade rumbling down the old dirt road.

Goku smiled as he looked at the Thompson in Gene's hands. It wasn't his sort of weapon, but he would hold onto it just in case. Goku took a seat on the hood of the truck and pulled his custom Welrod out of his pocket. He took a moment to admire the experimental pistol that had become his favorite. It was an elongated, silenced, bolt-action pistol made in Britain. He fitted a custom 10X mini-scope on the top, and loaded it with his custom made armor piercing rounds. He cocked the gun and tested the sights up the road, when a loud bang sounded from the ship, and he saw Gene dive into the dock offices. He turned and started walking toward Gene's location when he heard a low grumbling coming from the road behind him. 

Whipping his head back around, he saw the single headlight of a motorcycle in the distance. He fired off a warning shot with the Thompson, then took position behind the truck, using the hood as a stabilizer, aiming down his sights at the figure on the motorcycle. He saw a familiar silhouette riding it in, but he couldn't quite put his finger on who it was.