I scrambled into the vessel’s lower bilge, the cramped space smelling of stagnant water and mildew. The rhythmic thrum of the ship against the pilings was a dull pulse against my ear. My breath hitched in my throat, each sound outside echoing with magnified terror.
A heavy beam of light cut into the darkness, followed by the measured thud of footsteps.
“Lin!” Captain Sam Trujillo’s voice, rough and resonant, echoed through the hold. “Heard you sneaking around. Couldn’t let you ruin the company’s reputation, jeopardize my crew’s pensions.”
He stepped into view, his silhouette imposing, the heavy flashlight a weapon in his hand. He meant business. He cornered me against a rusted bulkhead.
“You’re a fugitive now, girl,” Trujillo stated, his eyes hard. “And the dock workers, we take care of our own. You ain’t one of us.”
Just as he reached for me, a figure burst into the hold, panting. Nora.
“Captain! Wait!” Nora thrust Arthur’s 2009 scuttling letter into his hands, her voice urgent. “Read this! Marcus wasn’t protecting your pensions, he was selling you out!”
Trujillo’s brow furrowed as he scanned the letter under his flashlight. Nora pointed to a specific paragraph.
“He planned to liquidate Kestrel’s remaining fleet,” she explained, her voice sharp. “To cover up this historic insurance fraud. Your pension fund? Bankrupt within a month. Marcus viewed you all as collateral damage.”
Trujillo’s eyes, grim moments before, widened in disbelief, then hardened into something cold and furious. He looked from the letter to me, then back to the letter. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his radio.
He turned it off. The click was loud in the silence.
“Rear engine escape hatch,” Trujillo grunted, pointing into the deeper shadows. “Gets you out near the old cannery. Nobody uses it.”
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