Trujillo’s men fanned out, their heavy work boots splashing through the puddles. The glint of steel wrenches seemed to multiply in the dim light. I backed up against the cold, unyielding chain-link fence, the links digging into my back. There was nowhere left to go. The water of Puget Sound stretched endlessly behind me, too cold and too deep.
Just as the dock workers closed in, a beat-up sedan, its paint faded and streaked with mud, screeched to a halt beside the dock entrance. The tires spit gravel onto the pavement.
The passenger window rolled down with a hesitant whine.
“Get in! Now!” a woman yelled, her voice urgent over the rain.
I didn’t hesitate. I dove for the car, my fingers scraping against the door handle as I yanked it open. The smell of old coffee and newsprint hit me. I scrambled into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as Trujillo’s men reached the fence.
The sedan lurched forward, tires squealing as it peeled away from the pier. In my rearview mirror, I saw Victor Garrick’s black security van, its headlights cutting through the rain, pull up to the gate just as we vanished around a corner.
“Thanks,” I gasped, breathless, my chest heaving. “You have no idea—”
The driver, a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense bob, cut me off. She pulled a digital voice recorder from her dashboard, a small, black rectangle that clicked ominously.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m Nora Chen, *Seattle Daily Press*. And you, Maya Lin, are about to tell me everything you know about Kestrel Maritime’s illegal toxic waste dumping operations.”
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