Chapter 3 - The Iron Gates
The cab ground to a halt against a mountain of industrial trash bags. The driver threw his hands up, shouting curses in Spanish, but I didn't wait. I pushed the door open, hiked up the heavy layers of my wedding gown, and leaped out into the freezing mud.
The heavy iron gates directly in front of me weren't just decorative; they were electronic, secured by a massive digital keypad. I slammed my fists against the cold metal bars, screaming for help, knowing full well that in this forgotten pocket of the waterfront, nobody was coming.
The doors of the rear SUV clicked open. Two men in identical charcoal suits stepped out into the rain, their coat jackets parting slightly to reveal the unmistakable shoulder holsters beneath.
"Miss Hayes," the taller one called out, his voice flat and devoid of human warmth. "Mr. Witmore sends his regards. Step away from the gate."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached into the pocket of my ruined dress, my fingers closing around a heavy silver object—the vintage pocketknife my father had given me on my sixteenth birthday, its blade locked shut. It was pathetic, a toothpick against armed corporate fixers, but it was all I had.
As the men advanced, closing the distance across the wet cobblestones, a sharp, metallic click rang out from the shadows above us.
"I'd advise you gentlemen to take inventory of your health before you take another step on private property," a voice echoed through the alley. It wasn't loud, but it carried an absolute, chilling authority that stopped the two corporate goons dead in their tracks.
From an unlit iron catwalk hanging twenty feet above the alley, a man stepped into the faint amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his face largely shadowed by the brim of his hat, but the glint of a heavy platinum ring caught the streetlight as he rested one hand lazily on the iron railing.
"This is a private corporate retrieval," the lead goon shouted up at the catwalk, though his hand hesitated near his shoulder holster. "Stay out of it, old man."
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The man on the catwalk didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "This is the Blackwood Syndicate's shipping dock," he said softly. "And you are currently trespassing on my concrete."
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