Chapter 11 - The Rail Yard
The abandoned rail yard off Route 9 was a skeletal maze of rusted freight cars, overgrown tracks, and looming concrete warehouses shrouded in thick industrial fog. David's battered truck crept slowly along the gravel access road without its headlights, relying entirely on the faint glow of the dashboard and our memory of the layout.
I sat in the passenger seat, clutching my grandfather's handwritten note in one hand and the flash drive in the other. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, the adrenaline humming in my veins replacing the cold dread with pure, unadulterated fury.
"When we pull up to the main warehouse, stay in the truck until I clear the perimeter," David instructed quietly, shifting the truck into park behind a rusted tanker car.
"I'm not staying behind, David," I said, my voice cutting through the cab with absolute finality. "They have my son. You don't get to protect me anymore."
David looked over at me, the dim dashboard light catching the hard set of his jaw. For a second, he looked like a stranger—the ruthless operative my grandfather had warned me about. Then he nodded slowly.
"Alright. But stay behind me every step of the way," he whispered, checking the magazine of his pistol before pushing open the heavy truck door.
The air outside smelled of old engine oil, damp iron, and rotting wood. We crept along the side of a massive corrugated metal warehouse, the distant hum of a diesel generator vibrating through the frozen ground. Through a cracked, grime-covered window near the loading dock, we saw them.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit room, Leo sat huddled on a wooden crate in the center of a chalk-drawn circle. He wasn't crying; he looked small, pale, and eerily calm, staring straight ahead at a towering figure pacing back and forth in front of him.
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It wasn't Marcus. It was a woman in a sharp grey wool coat, her silver hair pulled back into a severe bun, leaning heavily on an ornate silver-headed cane.
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