Chapter 2: The Brass Key in the Pocket

I landed with a jarring thud, the damp air thick with dust and the metallic scent of old machinery. The dumbwaiter shaft scraped against my shoulder, a searing pain, before my feet hit solid concrete. I kicked through the flimsy drywall of the utility closet, emerging into a dimly lit corridor in the building’s basement.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere near the service elevators.

“Check the loading bays!” a voice barked, distant but clear. “She couldn’t have gone far!”

Victor Garrick’s men, already sweeping the ground floor. I pressed myself against the cold concrete wall, moving with soft, rapid steps through the cavernous parking garage. Each shadow felt like a hiding place, each distant engine hum a threat.

My hand instinctively went to my coat pocket, to the surprising weight Lawson had pressed into my palm. It was a heavy, tarnished brass key.

A faint stamp was visible on its head: ‘SS-17’.

*The Sea Sentinel*. Arthur’s original, retired 1980s salvage tug. Docked at Pier 17. Lawson had risked everything, his entire career, to give me this single, cryptic lead.

The irony was brutal. Even with a potential lifeline, my own corporate access card in my coat pocket buzzed a dull, angry red against my leg. Marcus had already revoked my credentials system-wide. I was locked out, and locked in.