I ran, not stopping until the sprawling Kestrel complex was a distant, menacing silhouette against the churning gray sky. The rain began to fall in earnest, cold and relentless, plastering my hair to my face as I navigated the grimy side streets of Seattle’s industrial waterfront. Each splash of my feet in a puddle felt like a drumbeat, counting down time I didn’t have.
Pier 17 rose ahead, a tangle of cranes and shipping containers silhouetted against the dark water. But the main security gate, a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, was not empty.
Fleet Captain Sam Trujillo stood there, his burly frame solid against the driving rain, flanked by three dock workers. They weren’t holding clipboards. They gripped heavy, oil-stained steel wrenches.
My heart sank. This wasn’t just a perimeter; it was a blockade.
“There’s a ten thousand dollar bounty on her head, lads!” Trujillo’s voice, raspy and deep, carried on the wind. “Marcus himself put the cash up. Anyone brings her in, clean and whole.”
He saw me then, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.
“Lin!” he bellowed. “You listen here, you little parasite! You come in, you try to explain your lies, you just make things worse.”
He spat on the wet asphalt.
“Arthur built this place. He took care of his own. You ain’t one of us, and you just went and destroyed his legacy.”
His hand tightened on his wrench. The message was clear. The dock, the one place I thought the key might lead me to safety, was now another trap.
+ There are no comments
Add yours