Chapter 2: A Stormy Escape

The air crackled with Hallowell’s threat, a chill that had nothing to do with the November rain outside. He stood, a looming shadow in the dim office doorway, effectively blocking my only exit.

“Surrender the ledgers, Walter,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Or your boy will be wearing a uniform a lot sooner than he expects, to answer for your sabotage.”

My stomach clenched. My boy. Young Thomas, barely eighteen, waiting for his draft notice. Hallowell knew exactly where to twist the knife.

But the weight of the forged documents in my satchel felt heavier. $4.2 million in falsified steel certifications for frigates headed to the brutal North Atlantic. Men’s lives.

I looked at the rain-streaked window, then back at Hallowell’s unyielding face.

“You can’t pin this on Thomas,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

A faint smile touched his lips, a cold, calculating curve. “The courts will decide who’s responsible for wartime treason, Walter. But I assure you, they won’t look kindly on a family with a saboteur father and a draft-dodging son.”

My hand instinctively tightened on the satchel. The image of Thomas, so full of life, caught in this web. But what about the sailors? The warships already on the water, or soon to be?

I took a slow, deliberate step towards him.

“You’re making a mistake,” I warned.

Hallowell didn’t budge. His eyes narrowed, watching me like a hawk.

“The only mistake,” he hissed, “is thinking I can’t break you.”

I pushed forward. Not a sudden shove, but a determined, forward momentum. His expensive wool suit brushed against my worn overcoat. For a moment, we were chest to chest, a silent struggle of wills. He smelled faintly of expensive cigars and the metallic tang of fresh ink.

He let out a grunt of surprise, thrown off by my sheer refusal to stop. He stumbled back a single step, enough to break his block.

I seized the opening, slipping past him and out into the main corridor. The shipyard outside was a cacophony of hammering steel and groaning cranes, muted by the heavy rain. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I didn’t look back.

The slick concrete of the shipyard felt treacherous under my feet as I ran, the rain plastering my thinning hair to my forehead. Every shadow seemed to hold a lurking guard, but I kept my head down, moving towards the naval liaison office.

Lt. Commander Daniel Albright’s office was a small, Spartan room, tucked away from the main shipyard noise. He looked up, surprised, as I burst in, soaked and breathless, the satchel clutched tight.

“Walter? What in God’s name—” Albright began, his brow furrowed with concern.

I dumped the collection of raw steel logs onto his desk, the papers damp at the edges.

“These are the proof,” I gasped, pointing to the columns of numbers. “Delmarva’s been falsifying the frigate hull certifications. Millions of dollars. It’s all here.”

Albright’s eyes widened as he glanced at the documents, his face going pale. He picked up a log, his fingers tracing the figures. He didn’t say anything, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. The fluorescent light of his office hummed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the damning evidence.

“I need you to look at these,” I urged him. “Off the record. Before Hallowell makes them disappear.”

He held my gaze, his expression grim. A profound unease settled in the room, heavy as the rain outside.