Chapter 3 - Shadows on the Dashboard
I stared at the glowing screen as the digital timestamp blinked at me. The photo had been snapped from a high angle—probably from the second-story window across the narrow street or from an unmarked sedan parked in the shadows near the alley.
“Trouble?” Pete asked, noticing the change in my posture.
“Just a local greeting,” I said, pocketing the phone smoothly. I slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter to cover the water and the trouble. “Keep the change, Pete.”
“Be careful out there, Captain,” Pete warned, his eyes lingering on the door. “Oakhaven looks quiet, but since the shipyard expansion brought all those defense contractors into town, the kind of people who buy information have been crawling out of the woodwork.”
“They picked the wrong target if they want information,” I said.
I stepped out of the bar into the crisp night air. The wind coming off the Chesapeake Bay carried the sharp scent of salt, decaying marsh grass, and low tide. The street was mostly deserted, lined with old brick storefronts and flickering streetlights that hummed in the dark.
My sedan was parked fifty yards down the block beneath a flickering amber light. As I walked toward it, my eyes scanned every rooftop, every dark alley, and every parked vehicle. A professional watcher always leaves a signature—a reflection, a lingering engine idle, or the specific slouch of someone trying to look invisible.
I reached my car, unlocked the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. I didn't turn the engine on immediately. Instead, I sat in the darkness, watching my rearview mirrors.
Two minutes passed. Nothing moved except a stray cat darting behind a dumpster.
Then, my phone buzzed again.
You missed the turn for Miller’s Point, the message read. If you want to know what David Vance really hid in the ledger, go to 412 Wharf Street. Room 302.
I tapped the screen and hit reply. Who is this?
The response was instant. An old friend of David’s. Or an enemy of his enemies. Take your pick.
I started the engine, shifted into drive, and pulled away from the curb. I knew the rule as well as anyone: walking into an unverified rendezvous set up by an anonymous sender was textbook suicide. But as I drove through the quiet streets of Norfolk toward Wharf Street, a cold realization settled into my chest.
The mystery of David Vance wasn't just about a missing man or a classified ledger. It was about a shadow operation that had started the day our task force was officially decommissioned.
When I pulled up to 412 Wharf Street—a dilapidated brick walk-up apartment building sandwiched between a shuttered fish market and an active railway line—I cut my headlights and killed the ignition.
The front door of the building was propped open with a rusted paint can.
May you like
I stepped out of the car, my hand resting naturally inside my jacket where a concealed tactical blade hung securely in its sheath. I pushed the door open, climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor, and stopped in front of Room 302.
The door was unlocked, pushed inward by a single inch, leaking a thin strip of yellow light into the dark hallway.
