Chapter 9 - Collision at Pier Twelve
The rain had stopped by midnight, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the amber glow of industrial sodium lights along the harbor.
Pier Twelve was a ghost town of towering steel cranes, rusted shipping containers, and the rhythmic, low-frequency hum of cargo ships idling in the dark harbor. My hands were shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket, gripping the cold metal card Roman had given me hours ago.
A sleek black sedan sat parked fifty yards away, its headlights off. Inside sat Roman and his security chief, watching the perimeter through encrypted comms. But for this part, I was entirely on my own.
Footsteps crunched against the gravel behind me.
I didn't turn around immediately. I stood listening to the sound of the waves lapping against the concrete pilings, feeling the crisp, salt-laden air fill my lungs.
"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here alone, Miss Hayes," a voice rasped from the shadows.
Viktor Vance stepped into the amber light. He wore a dark wool coat, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, the jagged scar across his eyebrow stark against his pale skin. He looked at me with the detached amusement of a cat inspecting a cornered mouse.
"I figured it was better to talk face-to-face than wait for your thugs to kick my door in again," I said, keeping my voice level, forcing every ounce of tremor out of my tone.
Vance chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "Your boyfriend was a fool, I'll give him that. Crying about his debts, begging for a way out. But he was useful. He gave us a name, a social security number, and a clean paper trail right to Gallagher's front door."
"And where is David now?" I asked, watching him closely.
Vance shrugged lazily. "Somewhere warm, hopefully. Or at the bottom of the sound. Depends on how fast he spends his severance pay."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach, confirming what I already suspected. David hadn't escaped to a new life; he had been discarded the moment he became a liability, just like everyone else who crossed paths with men like Vance.
"You think you've won," I said, taking a slow step forward. "You think you can pin the federal manifest on me, take down Roman's import channels, and walk away clean."
"I don't think, sweetheart. I know," Vance said, his smile fading into a hard, predatory glare. He reached into his coat pocket. "Now, hand over the digital drive with the original dock logs you pulled from your boyfriend's laptop, and maybe—just maybe—I'll let you catch a bus out of state before the marshals pick you up."
"I don't have a digital drive," I said clearly.
Vance’s eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me. Where is the evidence?"
"It's already uploaded," a deep, cold voice cut through the dark from behind a row of shipping containers.
Vance whipped around, his hand flying toward his coat pocket.
Before his fingers could wrap around whatever weapon was hidden inside, the area exploded into light. High-intensity floodlights mounted on the adjacent crane snapped on, bathing Pier Twelve in blinding white illumination.
From the shadows between the containers, Roman Gallagher stepped forward, flanked by four armed guards. At the same time, the doors of the black sedan flew open, and Roman's security chief moved swiftly to cut off Vance's escape route.
Vance froze, his hand still trapped inside his coat. He looked from Roman to me, realization dawning across his face like a slow-moving storm.
"You set a trap," Vance snarled, his voice tight with suppressed fury.
"Not a trap, Viktor," Roman said, stopping ten feet away, his gray eyes locked onto the fixer with absolute, unyielding coldness. "An audit."
Before Vance could speak, the distinct wail of approaching sirens echoed across the harbor road—not police sirens, but the heavy, unhurried sirens of federal transit inspectors accompanied by local tactical units.
Vance’s face drained of color. "You called the feds?"
"I didn't call them," Roman replied smoothly, tilting his head. "Nora did. Twenty minutes before we left the townhouse."
Vance spun toward me, his expression twisting into pure venom. "You stupid bitch—you just brought the entire federal government down on your own head. You're on that lease! They'll lock you away for twenty years!"
I stepped out from under the crane's shadow, lifting my chin as I met his furious gaze.
"My name was on the lease," I said, my voice echoing clearly across the concrete pier. "And my signature was forged. But unlike David, I didn't hide behind a shell company. I handed over the original bank routing numbers, the port access logs, and the text messages linking your operation directly to the terminal manager."
Vance lunged forward, his hand finally pulling a pistol free from his coat—but before he could level the barrel, a heavy thud echoed across the pier.
Roman’s security chief moved with terrifying speed, tackling Vance to the ground and sending the weapon skittering across the concrete.
As the sirens grew deafeningly loud, flashing red and blue lights painting the steel containers in harsh streaks of color, Roman stepped up beside me. He looked down at the subdued fixer, then turned his gaze to me, the hard, dangerous edge in his eyes softening into something deeply complex.
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"Well, Nora," Roman said quietly, the wind off the harbor whipping his dark hair across his forehead. "It turns out you're remarkably good at closing accounts."
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