Dante turned back to Clara. “I wouldn't ask this of you if there was another way. But I need you to see something. We need a way to narrow down that shipyard.”
Clara didn't hesitate. She threw off the light blanket. Her legs trembled violently as she swung them over the edge of the bed, but she planted her feet on the cold hardwood floor. She was wearing soft cotton scrubs provided by the medical staff, a stark contrast to her stained uniform.
Dante offered his hand. She took it, letting him support her weight as they walked out of the medical room and down a wide, elegantly lit hallway.
They entered a massive command center. A bank of glowing monitors dominated the far wall, manned by three technicians in dark clothing. Elias stood behind them, his arms crossed over his chest.
In the corner, sitting on a leather sofa with his head in his hands, was Chef Henri. He looked up as Clara entered, his eyes bloodshot and hollow.
“Clara,” Henri choked out, standing up. “You saved him. You saved my life.”
“We haven't saved your son yet, Henri,” Dante said, his tone cutting through the emotion. “And we are running out of time. Vance’s people will scrub that shipyard by dawn if they think we’re onto them.”
Dante led Clara to the center monitor. “Elias pulled the security feed from the restaurant’s loading dock. I need you to watch this.”
The screen flickered to life, showing a grainy, black-and-white feed of the concrete service hallway where Clara had been walking.
“There,” Clara said, pointing a shaking finger as her own image appeared on the screen, carrying the tray of glasses.
A second later, a man in a dark gray uniform stepped out from the shadows near the service elevator. They collided on screen. Clara watched as the man grabbed her arm to steady her, leaning in close before shoving past her.
“Pause it,” Dante ordered.
The image froze on the man’s back as he walked away. The resolution was terrible; the silver falcon logo was barely a gray smudge, and his face was obscured by the low brim of his cap.
“Look at his boots,” Clara whispered, leaning closer to the glowing screen.
The camera angle captured the man from a slightly elevated position. His heavy work boots were caked in thick, dark mud.
“I told you, it’s red clay,” Clara said.
“We know it’s clay from the shipyard,” Elias said, his deep voice rumbling with frustration. “But that doesn't tell us which of the three thousand containers the boy is in.”
Clara stared at the frozen image. Her heart began to race, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. The medication was making her dizzy, but she forced herself to focus on the screen. There was something else. A detail she had dismissed in the chaos of the collision.
“He wiped his hands,” Clara said suddenly.
Dante looked at her. “What?”
“When he bumped into me, he grabbed my arm. His gloves were dirty. When he let go, he wiped his hand on his jacket. Look.”
She pointed to a faint smear on the man’s gray thigh in the video.
“Zoom in on the left glove,” Dante commanded.
The technician isolated the man’s hand and enhanced the contrast. The fingers of the heavy leather work glove were stained with a stark, reflective residue. It wasn't mud. It was something metallic and greasy.
“That’s lithium grease,” Elias said, stepping closer to the monitor. “Industrial grade. Used for heavy crane joints.”
Clara shook her head. “No. I smelled it when he grabbed me. It wasn't just grease. It smelled like… rotting fish and diesel fuel. It smelled like the harbor.”
Dante’s eyes widened. He looked at Elias, the puzzle pieces slamming together in real-time.