CHAPTER 6: Warehouse 4
The salty mist of the harbor rolled across the cracked asphalt of the old shipping docks. Warehouse 4 was a rusted relic from the city’s industrial boom, bathed in the sickly orange glow of sodium vapor lamps.
Inside, crates marked with forged customs clearance stamps were lined up next to three black SUVs. Lev Kazarian stood with his hands inside the pockets of a cashmere overcoat, his expression stone-cold as he looked at Pierre.
Pierre was pacing frantically, his tuxedo shirt torn at the collar. “My men had an issue, Lev! Just give them twenty more minutes! The seal will be here!”
“You have five minutes, Pierre,” Kazarian replied, checking a diamond-encrusted watch. “After that, I load whatever is in these crates, and you get thrown into the bay with ten pounds of concrete on your ankles.”
The rusted steel side door creaked open.
A single silhouette walked through the fog. Julian Vance stepped into the warehouse lights, his hands visible and empty. He wore the same gray jacket, splattered with a drop of fresh rain.
“Julian!” Pierre gasped, stumbling backward. “Where are my men?”
“Filing police reports,” Julian said. “And Kazarian... you might want to look inside those crates before you commit international art theft.”
Kazarian frowned, nodding to one of his armed enforcers. The man took a crowbar, jamming it under the lid of the nearest wooden shipping crate. The wood splintered open.
Inside, there were no Renaissance oil paintings. There were no thousand-year-old bronzes.
May you like
There were only hundreds of children’s watercolor drawings from the Clara Vance Community Center—vibrant sunflowers, finger-painted skies, and messy portraits of hope.
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