The situation at North Port had reached the brink of bloodshed.
A thick layer of sea fog hung over the third quadrant, where several massive reefer vessels cut through the choppy water, advancing slowly.
The negotiation table had been set up in a makeshift office behind the container cold storage, the air thick with the acrid scent of diesel fuel.
Dominic sat at the head of the table, his coat still on, lounging casually against the backrest. The white bandages wrapped around his right hand stood out starkly under the dim, cold light. His left hand idly flipped through a stack of ownership agreements for the North Port shipping lanes.
His posture was not that of a negotiator. It was that of a man surveying newly conquered territory.
Across the long table sat Adrian Maurice.
His hands
