Chapter 10 - The Shipping Yard At Midnight
The black luxury sedan tore through the rusted iron gates of the abandoned Vance Shipping Yards, its headlights cutting through the dense, chilling fog rolling off the dark river. The sprawling industrial complex looked like a graveyard of rusting cranes, rotting wooden warehouses, and towering stacks of empty shipping containers that loomed like monoliths in the dark.
Julian killed the headlights a hundred yards from the main warehouse, plunging the car into darkness as it coasted to a halt beside a rusted forklift.
"Stay low," Victoria whispered, sliding out of the passenger side with her weapon raised.
Julian stepped out into the damp night air, his tactical vest feeling heavy and comforting against his chest. He pulled the charging handle of his submachine gun, hearing the metallic clack of a round chambering. Every instinct in his body screamed that this was a trap, but when he closed his eyes, he could still hear Lily's terrified voice echoing in his ears: Daddy, she said I don't belong.
They moved in tandem, hugging the shadows of the towering shipping containers until they reached the corrugated metal siding of Warehouse 4. A single overhead light bulb flickered above the heavy sliding door, casting a sickly yellow glow over the damp concrete.
Through a cracked window near the top of the door, Julian peered inside. The interior of the massive warehouse was mostly dark, save for a single circle of harsh white light in the center. In the middle of that light sat a single wooden chair.
And tied securely to that chair, her small pink party dress stained and dirty, her blonde hair matted with tears, sat Lily.
Julian’s grip on his weapon tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step forward, ready to kick the door open and slaughter everyone inside, but Victoria grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the shadows.
"Wait," Victoria hissed, pointing toward the catwalk suspended twenty feet above the warehouse floor.
Julian looked up. Standing on the metal grating, leaning casually against the railing with a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, was a man Julian hadn't seen in fifteen years. A man whose face was supposed to have melted away in the Chicago warehouse fire.
It was Arthur Vance, Julian’s older estranged uncle, officially recorded as dead and cremated a decade and a half ago.
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Arthur took a slow sip of his whiskey, looked down at Lily, and then stared directly through the dark window straight at Julian, flashing a horrifyingly familiar, wicked smile.
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