Chapter 8
The rain had reduced to a steady, miserable drizzle by the time Marcus’s sedan rolled into the deserted industrial district near the Chicago river. The warehouses here were decaying relics of a bygone manufacturing era, their corrugated metal walls streaked with rust and graffiti. Shadows stretched long and distorted under the sickly amber glow of occasional sodium streetlights.
Claire sat beside him, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She had changed out of her ruined beige jacket into a dark trench coat, blending better with the nocturnal gloom of the docks. Marcus killed the headlights, letting the car coast to a silent stop fifty yards from Warehouse 14—the address scribbled on the white note.
"This is it," Claire whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the heater. "If Arthur is here, he’s taking an enormous risk. The board’s security detail uses these docks for their night patrols."
"Then we don't have much time," Marcus replied, putting the car in park and reaching for the door handle. "Stay here. If anyone approaches the car, start the engine and get out of the district. Don't wait for me."
"I'm not staying in the car, Marcus," Claire said firmly, pushing her door open before he could argue. "Those files concern me just as much as they concern you. If Arthur is handing over the backups, I need to know what's in them."
Marcus didn't waste breath arguing. He stepped out into the damp chill, pulling his dark suit jacket tight against his chest. Together, they navigated the slick, oil-stained concrete toward Warehouse 14. The massive sliding metal door was ajar by a few inches, a faint sliver of yellow light cutting through the darkness from within.
They approached cautiously, Marcus leading the way with his hand resting inside his coat where the pearl-handled knife still resided. He pushed the heavy door open just enough to slip inside, holding it for Claire before following her into the cavernous, freezing interior.
The warehouse smelled of damp cardboard, rust, and stagnant river water. Rows of empty wooden pallets stretched into the gloom, casting eerie, jagged shadows under the solitary overhead bulb hanging by a frayed cord in the center of the room. Standing beneath that light, leaning heavily against a steel drum, was a man who was supposed to be dead.
May you like
Arthur Vance looked older, his hair completely grey and his face gaunt, but the sharp, calculating gleam in his eyes remained entirely unchanged. He looked up as they approached, a grim, tired smile touching his lips.
"You made it," Arthur said, his voice raspy and echoing off the metal walls. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, Claire. And Marcus... I always knew you had a better survival instinct than the rest of the board."
