Chapter 3 - The Midnight Dock
The marine supply depot on Pier 14 loomed out of the harbor fog like a rusted iron monolith. Giant shipping containers were stacked six high against the dark, churning water of Lake Superior, their corrugated metal walls dripping with condensation in the freezing midnight wind.
I cut the lights of my truck half a mile back, parking behind a row of abandoned timber crates.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Eleanor checked the slide of a compact 9mm Sig Sauer she had kept locked in our bedroom safe since my third deployment. She racked a round into the chamber with crisp, fluid precision.
“You realize,” Eleanor said, looking over at me with a slight, ironic smile, “that if my hospital administrator knew I was breaking into a syndicate narcotics warehouse with an ex-Force Recon instructor at midnight, she would probably fire me before the police could arrest us.”
“Your administrator doesn't appreciate your tactical proficiency,” I replied, reaching into the back seat to pull on my black tactical gloves. “And besides, we’re not here for narcotics. We’re here for the physical asset ledger Victor’s accountant uses to bribe the city council.”
We slipped out of the truck into the freezing mist.
Years of military muscle memory took over instantly. I moved through the perimeter fence with silent, fluid economy, utilizing the deep shadows cast by the container stacks to bypass two active security patrols without a single sound. Eleanor followed right on my heels, her boots making barely a whisper against the wet asphalt.
We reached the rear loading bay of Warehouse 4. A heavy steel door, secured by an electronic magnetic lock and a secondary manual deadbolt, blocked our entry.
I pulled a small, modified diagnostic device from my pocket—a tool my old intel team used to spoof local frequency relays—and plugged it into the emergency exterior maintenance port beside the keypad.
Blink. Blink. Green.
The heavy magnetic seal popped with a dull, pneumatic click.
I pushed the door open just enough for us to slip inside into the dark, cavernous interior of the warehouse, which smelled of diesel fuel, damp cardboard, and unwashed crate wood.
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“We have five minutes before the hourly perimeter sweep loops back around,” I whispered, keeping my voice low and steady. “The manager’s office is on the upper catwalk. Let’s move.”
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