Chapter 5 - The Trap at the Docks
The murder of Celeste inside a high-security police facility proved one horrifying fact: Victor Vance’s reach extended into the highest levels of city law enforcement.
"She was a liability," Adrienne said, pacing the length of the penthouse living room. "Victor knew she would talk to lower her sentence. Now, the only people left who can tie Victor to the poison plot are the delivery crew... and us."
"We need the original shipping manifest from that warehouse," Marisol stated firmly. "The physical paper manifest that the drivers sign when unloading the catering boxes. If Victor's signature or his manager's code is on it, the federal prosecutors can bypass the local dirty cops and arrest him for attempted murder and treason."
"It's too dangerous, Marisol," Adrienne said flatly. "I won't risk your life."
"Mr. Hawthorne, I spent three years sorting scrap metal in dockyards with my dad," Marisol argued, stepping right up to him. "I know how warehouse inventory systems work. Your security guards know how to shoot guns, but they don't know how to navigate a shipping clerk's filing system without blowing the lock and triggering silent alarms. I do."
Adrienne stared at her for a long moment, seeing the fierce, unyielding courage in her dark eyes. "Only with Marcus and full tactical backup."
"Agreed," she said.
At 2:00 AM, an unmarked black van pulled up near the dark, rusted perimeter fence of the Luxe Linen warehouse down at the Seattle docks. Fog rolled thick off the gray ocean water, cutting visibility down to twenty feet.
Marcus handed Marisol a small, earpiece communicator and a slim electronic lock-pick. "I'll be monitoring your feed from the roof. If anything looks wrong, you pull out instantly."
"Got it," Marisol whispered.
She slipped through a gap in the chain-link fence, her black sneakers silent against the wet concrete. She reached the side door of the dark warehouse, inserted the electronic pick into the digital keypad, and watched the light turn from red to green with a quiet click.
She slipped inside. The air smelled of damp laundry, industrial bleach, and motor oil. Row after row of tall metal shelving stretched into the darkness, loaded with wooden crates.
Marisol navigated straight toward the manager’s glass office near the loading bay. She opened the filing drawers, flicking through the paper records under the narrow beam of her small penlight.
Found it.
A thick, leather-bound manifest stamped with Luxe Linen - Special Deliveries. She flipped to the date of the wedding. There, in clear black ink, was the signature authorizing the delivery of the specialized catering table: V. Vance.
Suddenly, the warehouse overhead lights slammed on with a deafening hum, blinding her.
"Looking for this?" a harsh voice sneered from the office doorway.
Marisol turned, blocking the light with her hand.
May you like
Standing in the doorway was the man with the dark sunglasses—the one from the kitchen. Only now, his glasses were off, revealing cold, snake-like yellow eyes. In his right hand, he held a sleek black pistol equipped with a heavy silencer. Behind him stood four armed men in tactical gear.
"Marisol Vega," Victor Vance smiled, stepping into the room. "The heroic florist who ruined my four-billion-dollar acquisition. I must admit... you've been a major inconvenience."
