Chapter 1 – Sabotage at Dawn
Dublin Port – 04:27
The docks lay silent under the fading night sky, lit only by sodium lamps casting long orange shadows across stacked containers and silent cranes. A lone forklift beeped softly as it trundled down a deserted loading lane, its driver nodding with fatigue as he sipped lukewarm coffee from a steel flask.
Fifty metres away, two men in high-vis jackets crouched behind a container stack. They moved with silent efficiency, clipping a black composite case to the steel supports of an electric grid substation. One checked his wrist tablet, the other unrolled a coil of carbon-filament det cord.
“Timer set for 04:45,” whispered the first man in a thick Balkan accent. “Grid goes down, main port systems blackout. Chaos for extraction team.”
The second man, darker-skinned with sharp hawkish eyes, glanced around the yard before replying in Urdu-inflected English:
“Hurry up. Rahmani wants this done before dawn prayers.”
⚠️ Na Fianna Nua Operations HQ – Dublin North
Salty stood in the dim glow of an old repurposed factory office. He wore his standard tactical rig: olive combat trousers, reinforced kneepads, steel-capped boots, and a lightweight kevlar vest hidden under his weathered leather jacket. His beard bristled with irritation as he stared at the flickering surveillance feeds on the mounted screens.
Beside him, Niamh Flynn, petite with cropped black hair and luminous green eyes, tapped rapidly at a cracked laptop. Streams of encrypted data scrolled down her screen.
“Found them,” she whispered. “Thermal drone just picked up two heat signatures near Dock Sector E-17. No authorised work crews on shift. Both wearing fake port IDs.”
Salty leaned closer, his deep brown eyes narrowing as he studied the feed. “What are they doing?”
Niamh zoomed the infrared cam. “Planting something on the substation. Probably EMP charges or grid disruptors.”
Salty cracked his knuckles, feeling the old ache in his scarred fingers. “Right. Alert the Dockland patrol team.”
“Already pinged,” Niamh replied calmly. “ETA three minutes. Should I tell them to neutralise?”
Salty shook his head. “Not yet. We need one alive for questioning.”
🚨 Dublin Port – 04:32
The forklift driver blinked in confusion as four tactical responders in black combat rigs burst from an unmarked van, sprinting across the tarmac with silenced MP7s raised. The two saboteurs spun around too late.
Phfft. Phfft.
One went down instantly, a tranquiliser dart punching through his neck. The second lunged for his belt pistol but was slammed against the container stack by two responders, his arms pinned back as a baton crushed into his solar plexus.
“CLEAR!” shouted the squad leader into his comms.
🦅 Operations HQ
Salty exhaled, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension. “Good work, Niamh.”
Niamh’s pale lips twitched into a faint smile. “Thanks, boss. Want me to start the decryption scan on his comm device when he gets here?”
Salty nodded. “Do it. And run background biometrics on him. I want to know which scum Rahmani sent into my city this time.”
💀 Dockside Interrogation Room – 05:10
The captured saboteur sat bound to a steel chair under harsh fluorescent lights, blood trickling from his split lip. Salty stood before him, silent, arms folded, studying every twitch in the man’s gaunt face.
“You know who I am?” Salty asked calmly.
The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up defiantly. “You’re a dead man walking. Rahmani will flay you alive for this.”
Salty raised an eyebrow. “Will he now.”
He drew his tactical knife with slow, deliberate grace and pressed it under the man’s chin, forcing his head back gently.
“Well,” Salty growled, voice low and cold as steel, “he’ll have to get in line.”
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