Chapter 6 - The Greyhound Terminal
The sleet was turning to freezing rain by the time Ethan’s sedan fishtailed into the empty, desolate parking lane of the Greyhound bus station. The terminal looked abandoned, its sodium-vapor security lights buzzing against the gray morning sky like dying insects.
Hannah didn't wait for Ethan to come around and open her door. She shoved it open, the heavy wind catching the metal and nearly tearing it from her grip, and rushed across the slush-covered asphalt toward the side employee entrance.
“The manager’s office is around the back,” Hannah called over the roar of the wind, her breath pluming white in the freezing air. “If the overnight lockers haven’t been emptied yet, the attendant keeps the logbook in the back maintenance hall.”
Ethan caught up to her in two long strides, his gloved hand catching her elbow to steady her on a patch of black ice. “Slow down. If Arthur has people watching this station, rushing in blind is the fastest way to lose the drive for good.”
Hannah stopped, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with a mixture of terror and fierce determination. “Arthur doesn't know we’re looking for this drive, Ethan. He thinks it was destroyed six years ago when my account was wiped. He thinks I’m a broken cleaning girl who was too terrified of losing her minimum-wage job to ever look sideways at him again.”
“Then let’s prove him wrong,” Ethan said.
They slipped through the heavy metal service door, which gave way with a protesting squeak of ungreased hinges. The interior smelled of old diesel exhaust, stale coffee, and damp concrete. Rows of gray metal lockers lined the corridor, their numbers painted in faded yellow stencils.
Locker 114 sat near the base of the third stack, right beside a humming vending machine that dispensed crushed bags of chips.
Hannah dropped to her knees on the stained linoleum floor. Her cold fingers fumbled with the combination lock, turning the dial left, then right, according to the sequence she had memorized during the winter of her internship.
Twenty-four. Twelve. Six.
The padlock didn't budge.
“Is it jammed?” Ethan asked, kneeling beside her, his tailored coat brushing the dirty floor.
“No,” Hannah whispered, her heart dropping into her stomach. “The combination was changed. Look at the scratch marks on the shackle. Someone was here.”
Before Ethan could answer, the heavy intercom speaker above their heads crackled to life with a loud, hollow pop of feedback.
“Looking for something, Ms. Mercer?”
May you like
The voice echoed down the concrete hallway—smooth, cultured, and entirely devoid of warmth. Arthur Vance.
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