The Boy Who Gave the Robber One Last Warning

The industrial docks of Westbridge Pier 14 were enveloped in oily black smoke and driving ocean spray.

Massive cargo cranes loomed against the stormy sky like iron giants. Beneath them, two dozen flatbed semi-trucks idle in long rows, waiting to receive the contraband containers from *The Northern Star*, which was slowly backing into the deepwater slipway.

Frank Thorne stood on the elevated crane observation platform, wearing a heavy yellow oilskin coat, watching the ship dock with cold satisfaction. Surrounding him were forty heavily armed mercenaries carrying automatic rifles, tactical shotguns, and night-vision optics.

"Move those cranes faster!" Thorne barked into his walkie-talkie. "I want the first ten containers loaded onto the trucks within fifteen minutes!"

Suddenly, the harbor's emergency broadcast horn blared across the entire bay.

The massive stadium lights illuminating the dock flashed red, then switched completely off, plunging the pier into storm-lashed darkness.

"What happened to the lights?" Thorne screamed into his radio. "Roman, report!"

Static crackled over the frequency. Then, a calm, youthful voice came through every speaker on the dock:

*"Frank Thorne. This is Caleb Reed. Step away from the cargo and order your men to lay down their weapons. This is your last warning."*

Thorne's eyes flared with murderous rage. "Find that boy! Kill him! Kill anyone with him!"

From the top of Crane #3, Marcus Hale fired a flare gun high into the midnight sky.

The bright crimson magnesium flare illuminated the entire dock, blinding Thorne's night-vision mercenaries. In that exact second, Detective Lucas Miller triggered the dock's emergency fuel cutoff valves, causing the diesel crane engines to sputter and die with deafening backfires.

Mercenaries opened fire in all directions, bullets ricocheting wildly off shipping containers and steel girders.

Moving through the container maze with phantom agility, Caleb struck from the shadows. He utilized flashbang grenades and non-lethal precision strikes, taking down three mercenaries in seconds, stripping their weapons, and disabling their communications gear.

"He's over here! Container 409!" a mercenary shouted.

Before the mercenary could shoulder his rifle, Caleb dropped from the top of the container, kicking the weapon aside and dropping the man with a lightning-fast jaw cross.

Up on the observation tower, Frank Thorne drew a gold-plated .44 Magnum, his hands trembling with frantic adrenaline.