Chapter 6 - Arrival at Pier 14
The salt-heavy air of the industrial docks hung thick and oppressive as Daniel's cruiser bumped across the cracked, weed-choked asphalt of Pier 14. Towering rust-streaked cranes loomed against the gray overcast sky like skeletal giants guarding a graveyard of forgotten ships. Rows of dilapidated corrugated steel warehouses stretched out along the waterfront, their windows shattered and doors swinging loosely in the biting wind.
Daniel killed his headlights a hundred yards before the main gate, letting the cruiser coast silently behind a stack of rotting shipping containers. He slipped his service Glock from its holster, checked the chamber with a practiced click, and tucked it securely into his waistband beneath his jacket. He pulled his portable radio from his belt, switched the battery off so dispatch couldn't track his exact location with a live ping, and stepped out into the damp chill.
Warehouse 7 sat at the very end of the pier, right against the murky, oil-slicked waters of the river. A single black SUV—the same vehicle that had fled Elm Street the night before—was parked illegally right outside the corrugated sliding door, which stood open about three feet.
Daniel crept forward, keeping low behind rusted oil drums and discarded crates. Every instinct honed over nearly three decades on the force screamed at him that this was a kill box. But Claire was inside. That realization erased all caution.
He reached the edge of the open warehouse door, pressed his back against the cool metal wall, and peered inside. The interior was cavernous, illuminated only by shafts of pale light piercing through holes in the roof. In the center of the concrete floor sat a wooden chair. Claire was tied to it again—her wrists bound with thick plastic zip-ties, a strip of grey duct tape pressed firmly across her mouth.
Standing a few feet away was Marcus Vance, holding a sleek black briefcase open on a metal workbench. Next to him stood an older woman with sharp, angular features, impeccably coiffed silver hair, and cold, calculating eyes—Lorraine Cole.
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"I told you he'd come, Lorraine," Marcus chuckled, snapping the briefcase shut and turning toward the shadows where Daniel stood. "Like a loyal dog following a scent."
"Step out where we can see you, Daniel!" Lorraine's voice cut through the cavernous space like broken glass, sharp and venomous. And with that, two armed thugs emerged from behind a stack of pallets, their rifles leveled straight at the doorway.
