Suddenly, the burner phone I had taken from Trent earlier—the one sitting in my jacket pocket—began to vibrate.
I pulled it out and stared at the cracked screen. The caller ID was Unknown.
I answered it and pressed the phone to my ear. I didn't say a word.
“Marcus,” a smooth, cultured voice said through the speaker. It wasn't Miller. It was Richard Sterling. “I understand you paid a visit to the bus terminal tonight. And I understand my men were clumsy enough to let you walk away.”
“If you hurt a single hair on his head, Sterling, there isn't a hole deep enough for you to hide in,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. I wasn't threatening him. I was stating a physical fact.
Sterling chuckled softly. “I have no interest in hurting a child, Marcus. I just want my property back. The ledger. The drive. Bring them to the old shipping yard on the south docks. Pier 4. You have exactly thirty minutes. Come alone. If you call the police, or if you don't show up, the boy goes into the water.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone. My sister was dead. The police were compromised. The only family I had left was being held hostage by a man who had already proven he was willing to kill.
I looked at Mrs. Gable. “Call an ambulance for your head. Do not call the police.”
I walked out the front door and got back into my truck. I didn't drive toward the police station. I drove toward the south docks.
Sterling wanted his property back. He was going to get it.
But he was going to get me with it.
CHAPTER 4
The south docks had been abandoned for years. They were a sprawling graveyard of rusting shipping containers, broken cranes, and rotting wooden piers jutting out into the black, freezing water of the bay. The rain had intensified into a heavy downpour, severely limiting visibility.
I parked my truck a quarter-mile away, hidden behind a derelict warehouse.
I didn't grab the ledger or the USB drive from the glove compartment. I left them locked inside. Instead, I pulled out a heavy metal tire iron from beneath the passenger seat. I slipped it through the loop on my belt and zipped my heavy canvas jacket over it.
I moved through the shadows of the shipping containers, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I had spent years running perimeter security in hostile territories. Moving silently through a wet, noisy environment was muscle memory.
I spotted them near the edge of Pier 4.
Sterling had brought an audience. Under the harsh glare of two portable halogen work lights, a black luxury SUV was parked near the water. Richard Sterling stood under an umbrella held by one of his large, silent men. He was wearing an expensive cashmere overcoat, looking completely out of place among the rust and grime.
Detective Miller stood a few feet away, his coat soaked, looking nervous and angry.
Standing near the back bumper of the SUV was Trent, the teenager from the mall. He looked pale and terrified, shivering in his wet hoodie. They must have dragged him along to identify me, or perhaps just to punish him for losing the phone.
And sitting on a wooden crate at the very edge of the pier, dangerously close to the black water, was Toby. His hands were bound in front of him with zip ties. He was crying silently, his shoulders shaking from the cold and the fear.
There were three armed guards. One near the SUV, one near Sterling, and the scarred man from the bus terminal standing directly behind Toby.
I couldn't just walk out into the light. I needed to shift the power dynamic.
I moved silently to the electrical generator powering the halogen lights. It was sitting fifty feet away behind a stack of rusted barrels. I waited until the wind howled off the bay, masking the sound, and violently yanked the spark plug wire from the engine.
The generator sputtered and died. The halogen lights instantly cut out, plunging the pier into near-total darkness.
“What the hell happened?” Miller yelled, his voice echoing over the rain.
“Relax,” Sterling snapped. “It’s just the generator. Fix it.”