The harbor was still breathing smoke when Doran’s convoy arrived.

Fog hung low across the water, flashing red and blue from the distant patrol lights. Men in tactical jackets moved like shadows, sweeping the docks with handheld scanners, radios crackling.

Doran stepped out of the SUV, heels clicking on the wet concrete. She didn’t flinch at the blood near the rail or the half-submerged wreckage under Pier 9. Her eyes moved methodically, assessing, cataloguing.

“Report,” she said.

The ...