Chapter 7 - The Beacon in the Dark
The tablet screen flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow across David’s tense face. Maya leaned over his shoulder, her eyes darting across the digital map of the neighborhood. A single blinking red dot pulsed slowly near the edge of town, right where the old abandoned textile mill sat rotting beside the railway tracks. The distance was roughly two miles—a thirty-minute walk through winding suburban streets, or a five-minute drive in the sedan.
"The textile mill," Maya whispered, a shiver running down her spine. "Nobody goes down there after dark. Why would Marcus be heading out there in his socks?"
"Because that's where people go when they don't want to be seen," David said, slipping his jacket on and sliding his car keys into his pocket. "Let's move. Every minute we waste here gives him more time to get in over his head."
They hurried out to the garage, the harsh overhead light snapping on to reveal David’s sedan parked neatly beside the recycling bins. Without a word, Maya climbed into the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt with shaking hands while David started the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and the vehicle backed smoothly out of the driveway, melting into the dark, quiet streets of the sleeping suburb.
The drive took less than six minutes, but to Maya, every second felt like an eternity. The familiar neighborhood shops and manicured lawns quickly gave way to overgrown weeds, rusted chain-link fences, and the looming, skeletal structure of the abandoned mill. Its broken windows stared out like hollow eyes into the moonlit night. David cut the headlights a block away, coasting the sedan quietly into the shadows of an overgrown gravel lot behind an old loading dock.
"Look," Maya pointed through the windshield.
A few hundred yards away, near the rusted loading bay of the mill, a faint amber glow flickered against the concrete wall. It wasn't a streetlamp. It was the light of a portable work lamp plugged into a generator, casting long, dancing shadows across the yard. Two figures were standing near the open sliding door of the warehouse, talking in low, animated tones. One of them wore a heavy black hoodie that was unmistakably Marcus.
"He's right there," David muttered, his hand resting heavily on the gearshift. He put the car in park and reached for the door handle.
"Wait, David," Maya caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Look who he's talking to. That's not just another kid from school."
May you like
David squinted through the windshield, adjusting his focus in the dim light. Standing opposite Marcus was an older man with a shaved head and a leather jacket, leaning casually against the side of a battered pickup truck. The man reached into the bed of his truck, pulling out a heavy, dark duffel bag and dropping it onto the concrete with a dull, metallic thud that echoed faintly across the empty yard. Marcus stepped back, shaking his head rapidly as if trying to refuse whatever the man was offering him.
---
