Chapter 5 - Intercepted Shadows
The rain turned heavier, drumming relentlessly on the hood of Mark’s unmarked patrol cruiser as he killed the engine in an alley two blocks from the old intermodal hub. Rex sat in the passenger seat, his ears pinned back, his amber eyes tracking every reflection on the wet glass.
Mark’s hands were steady, but a cold knot burned in the pit of his stomach. Intercepted. In broad daylight, with city paramedics and an airport doctor onboard. The dispatcher’s panicked update had given few details: an unmarked black SUV had boxed the rig against an overpass pillar, smoke grenades had been deployed, and by the time backup arrived, the rear doors were open and the stretcher was empty. Sarah and Bennett were alive, handcuffed to the vehicle's oxygen racks.
They hadn't killed the boy. They had retrieved him.
Mark pulled the silver key from his pocket and rubbed the dried blood off the teeth with his sleeve. If the people who took Leo wanted him dead, they would have left him to bleed out on the terminal floor. Stabbing him in the concourse had been a diversion or a botched extraction.
He checked his service weapon, racking a round into the chamber before slipping it back into the holster beneath his waterproof utility jacket. "Quiet, boy," he instructed Rex. The dog dropped low against the passenger seat, remaining invisible from the window line.
Mark stepped out into the damp cold. The intermodal bus depot was a relic of the late seventies: brutalist poured concrete, flickering amber sodium vapor lamps, and rows of vacant ticket counters covered in layers of peeling transit notices. Only a handful of commuters sat huddled near the vending machines at this hour.
Along the western wall, beneath a cracked destination board, stood three banks of olive-green mechanical lockers. Most were dented, with broken coin slots and scratched graffiti.
Mark walked with a steady, deliberate gait, his tactical boots silent against the wet floor tiles. He bypassed the lower rows, scanning the rusted numbers painted in faded white stencil.
*408... 410... 412.*
Locker 412 sat at chest level. The keyway was clean, showing no rust, suggesting recent use. Mark looked over his shoulder; no one was watching. The lone transit clerk inside the glass booth was dozing over a newspaper.
Mark inserted the key. It slid smoothly into the cylinder without resistance. He turned it clockwise.
The internal mechanism released with a dull, heavy click. Mark pulled the locker door open an inch, keeping his body positioned to block the view from the terminal floor.
Inside rested an unzipped black waterproof courier pouch. Tucked inside the outer sleeve was a small, laminated airline flight pass from thirty years ago, bearing the faded photograph of a young woman who looked unmistakably like an older version of Leo.
May you like
And beneath the pouch sat a digital burner phone, its screen suddenly lighting up in the dark recess of the locker with an incoming call from an unsaved number.
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