The next morning broke cold and gray, mirroring the knot in my stomach. I’d stayed up all night, poring over the 1998 lease. It was dense, full of legal jargon, and the amendments it referenced were nowhere to be found. Just knowing it existed, though, felt like holding a secret weapon.
My coffee cup was still half-full when the screech of tires echoed from the pier outside. I glanced out the window just as a gleaming black SUV pulled up to our fuel pumps, followed by a smaller, unmarked utility truck.
Julian Driscoll, Victor’s son, stepped out of the SUV, a smirk playing on his lips. He was wearing an expensive, tailored jacket that looked entirely out of place on a working dock. Two burly men in dark uniforms, clearly hired security, emerged from the utility truck.
My stomach clenched. Elena, standing beside me, pulled out her phone. “Who are those guys?”
“Trouble,” I muttered, already moving towards the door.
Julian walked directly to our two fuel delivery trucks, which were normally queued up by the pumps, ready for the morning charter runs. One of the security guards was already fiddling with something on the front wheel of our oldest truck.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I called out, my voice sharp against the morning quiet.
Julian turned slowly, that smirk widening. “Morning, Captain Gallagher. Just ensuring compliance. Your vehicles are technically on Driscoll Maritime tarmac, aren’t they?”
The security guard straightened up. A heavy, bright yellow commercial wheel-lock now clamped firmly onto the front tire of my truck. He moved to the second truck, already pulling another lock from his utility belt.
“Those trucks are registered to our company,” I said, my voice rising. “They’re vital for our charter operations.”
“And the fuel pumps? They’re on *our* property,” Julian said, gesturing dismissively towards the pumps, which were now draped with “Out of Order” signs. “Funny thing about property rights, Mrs. Gallagher. Sometimes they get a little… restrictive.”
One of our charter captains, old George, walked up, his face etched with concern. “Captain, the *Morning Star* is due out in an hour. We’ve got a full load of fish to deliver. We need fuel.”
Julian laughed, a short, unpleasant sound. “Looks like the *Morning Star* won’t be shining today, George. Or any other morning, unless Mrs. Gallagher finds a way to move her entire operation off Pier 14.”
My gaze hardened. “You can’t just cut off our fuel. That’s illegal interference with maritime commerce.”
“Is it?” Julian countered, shrugging. “Or is it simply a landlord exercising his rights over his property? The tarmac, the pumps, the *air* you breathe here, it all belongs to Driscoll Maritime. Unless you can pay your *new* rent, of course.” He stressed the word “new” with venom.
He pointed a finger at the wheel-locked trucks. “Those won’t be moving, Captain. And neither will any of your little fishing boats that rely on these pumps. Consider it a taste of what happens when you don’t take my father seriously.”
He turned on his heel, his security detail falling in behind him. As he climbed back into the SUV, he called out, “Tick-tock, Captain. Forty-eight hours is almost up.” The SUV’s engine roared to life, leaving me standing there, watching my fuel supply held hostage, the cold metal of the wheel-locks a stark symbol of Victor Driscoll’s power.
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