We raced back to the *Seattle Daily Press* office downtown, arriving at 3:00 AM. The city was mostly silent, but the adrenaline still hummed through my veins. Nora led me through the deserted lobby and up to the newsroom, a vast, quiet space filled with dark monitors and the ghosts of frantic deadlines.
“First, we digitize this,” Nora said, her voice brisk, holding up Arthur’s letter. “Then, we prepare an emergency news release. We hit them before dawn.”
She powered on a computer, the screen flaring to life. Just as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the building’s power flickered once, then dropped out completely. The newsroom plunged into an eerie, total darkness.
“What was that?” I whispered.
Then, the thud. A heavy, resonant sound from the lobby downstairs. Footsteps. Voices.
Victor Garrick’s voice cut through the silence, amplified by the building’s acoustics. “We have a valid emergency search warrant. Corporate property stolen from Kestrel Maritime is believed to be inside this building.”
Through the newsroom’s panoramic window, I saw the flickering blue and red lights of unmarked sedans. Private security contractors, not police. Four of them, moving with grim determination.
Nora’s editor-in-chief, a grizzled man named Richard, whose office was barely visible in the emergency lights, barked into his cell phone. His face was pale, his voice tight.
“A ruinous libel suit? Marcus’s attorneys are calling already,” Richard whispered, his eyes darting between Nora and the lobby below. “They’re claiming the warrant is valid. They’ll liquidate us.”
The threat was clear. They were besieging the building, not just to stop us, but to silence the *Daily Press* entirely.
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