Chapter 11 - The Abandoned Shipyard
The heavy industrial fog rolled off Puget Sound, wrapping the rusted skeletons of the abandoned Tacoma shipyards in a ghostly grey shroud. Agent Vance’s SUV crept slowly down the cracked, weed-choked asphalt of Pier 42, its headlights extinguished to avoid alerting anyone to their approach. In the distance, the skeletal cranes of the loading docks loomed against the pale sky like giant metal spiders, and the rhythmic clank-clank of loose corrugated tin siding echoed in the damp breeze.
Clara peered through the passenger window, her eyes scanning the sprawling maze of towering shipping containers stacked four stories high. Parked near the edge of the decaying wooden pier was a sleek, black luxury sedan with its engine idling, exhaust piping white smoke into the cold air. Next to it stood Arthur, his white shirt stained with grease and dirt, frantically shouting instructions to a heavyset dock worker who was lowering a heavy wooden crate onto the deck of a waiting cargo boat.
"There," Clara whispered, pointing toward the sedan. "They haven't boarded yet."
Agent Vance cut the SUV's engine, letting the vehicle coast silently to a halt behind a rusted shipping container twenty yards away. She unholstered her standard-issue sidearm, checking the magazine with a practiced click before sliding it back into her tactical holster.
"Stay in the vehicle, Clara," Agent Vance instructed in a low, firm whisper. "Once I move in to secure Arthur, find the dock master's office and locate the digital manifest. That's where they'll have the offshore transfer keys stored."
Before Clara could argue, Agent Vance slipped out of the passenger door and melted silently into the dense shadows between the towering metal containers. Clara watched her go, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. But looking out the window toward the pier, she saw something that sent a jolt of pure terror through her system.
Beatrice was not standing by the boat. She was walking slowly toward the rear of the very shipping container where their SUV was parked, holding a heavy steel pipe in her right hand, her grey updo slightly unraveled by the wind.
She wasn't trying to escape on the boat. She had spotted their approach from the start and was circling around to cut off their rear flank.
Clara’s hand reached out instinctively toward the door handle, but before she could push it open, a sharp tap sounded against the driver's side window. Clara turned her head slowly, expecting to see Beatrice's cold face peering through the glass.
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Instead, staring back at her through the fog-condensed window was a familiar face she never expected to see outside a hospital morgue—Noah Blackwood's personal physician, Dr. Marcus, holding a ring of master keys to the shipyard gates.
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