Part 8: The Harbor Terminal
Part 8: The Harbor Terminal
The wind through the coastal industrial park was freezing, carrying the thick scent of salt and old asphalt.
At 3:00 a.m., the old Hale shipping warehouse was a graveyard of empty containers and rusted crane structures.
I stood near the entrance of Dock 7, my heavy coat buttoned to my chin, the crimson folder tucked securely under my arm.
A single set of headlights pierced through the darkness.
A black luxury sedan pulled up to the baseline structure, its engine idling with a low, deep rumble.
The driver's door opened, and Brenda Hale stepped out, her charcoal wool coat flapping in the cold wind.
"You're punctual, Claire," she said, her voice cutting through the dark. "I appreciate a professional."
"Where are the original zoning ledger cards, Brenda?" I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
She walked toward me, her designer boots crunching on the gravel.
"The originals are in a safe-deposit box downtown," she said, stopping just three feet away. "They will stay there as long as you agree to sign over forty percent of the Hale-Pierce logistics routes."
"I don't sign documents under duress," I said.
She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that sounded exactly like her mother Vivian's.
"This isn't duress, Claire. This is an exchange. You give me the routes, and I give you back your family's reputation."
Then, a secondary set of headlights flashed from the shadow of a nearby container.
A white security SUV accelerated toward us, its tires screeching on the wet asphalt.
Brenda's smile vanished instantly.
"Who else did you bring?" she hissed, stepping back toward her sedan.
May you like
The SUV doors burst open, and three federal compliance officers stepped out, their tactical flashlights blinding us.
Naomi walked out behind them, holding a legal briefcase, his eyes cold and resolute.
